THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


a 


THE 


WITHERED  HEART. 


T.  S.  ARTHUR, 


AUTHOR    OF    "THE  THREE    ERAS   IN  A   WOMAN'S    LIFE,"   "THE    TRIALS 

AND  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  HOUSEKEEPER,"  "THE  HAND  WITHOUT 

THE  HEART,"  "WHAT  CAN  WOMAN  Do?" 

ETC.,   ETC.,   ETC. 


"  Hearts  are  daily  broke,  and  spirits  crush'd, 
While  he  who  slays  destroys  in  safety." 

DOUGLAS  JERROLD. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
JOHN   E.    POTTER   AND    COMPANY, 

617  SANSOM  STREET. 


P5 


A 

PREFACE. 


MANY  are  the  withered  hearts  that  lie  dor 
mant  in  the  otherwise  animated  bosoms  that 
grace  the  firesides  of  this  world!  These  are 
the  skeletons  in  homes  which  wreck  and  destroy 
the  peace  and  tranquility  of  mind  of  thou 
sands,  and  consign  them  to  the  enjoyment  of 
miserable  and  wretched  lives.  Domestic  un- 
happiness,  too  frequently,  is  the  source  of  this 
blight  upon  the  heart  and  its  affections. 

To  be  truly  loved  is  the  great  reward  life  lias 
to  offer.  Where  there  is  nothing  so  sweet  as  to 
be  loved,  except  loving,'  and  where  exists  true, 
pure  love,  which  is  not  a  thing  of  the  senses, 
but  of  the  soul — love  that  is  the  outgrowth  of 
goodness — what  should  not  one  do  to  win  and 
keep  such  tenderness  ?  What  should  one  not 
vl -k,  or  dare,  or  forsake  for  it?  But  too  often, 
alas !  selfishness  steps  in  and  demands  a  sacri 
fice  too  great.  The  reaction  from  the  realiza 
tion  of  a  crushed  love  seldom  takes  place,  and 
the  heart  withers  and  dies,  the  unhappy  cause 
of  tho  sacrifice  only  awakening  to  a  full  reali- 

'  17374     3 


4  PREFACE. 

zation  of  his  or  her  misfortune  when  probably 
it  is  too  late. 

John  Hardy,  the  husband  in  our  story,  only 
came  to  realize  this  fact,  in  all  its  force,  \vhcn 
his  wife  was  passing  away  to  an  immortal  life, 
and  it  is  faithfully  demonstrated  how,  but  for 
the  display  of  his  self-will,  the  glamour  of  a 
warm  and  cheering  heart  might  have  been  his 
through  life. 

The  life-histories  and  heart-experiences  of 
our  characters  have  their  counterparts  in  many 
other  homes;  and  we  trust  that  their  publica 
tion  may  exert  a  benign  and  healthy  influence 
upon  all  such  as  may  be  similarly  affected, 
through  the  spirit  of  pride  and  self-will;  and 
a  happy  love  and  domestic  felicity  may  find 
that  perfect  reinstatement  in  their  social  rela 
tions  ere  the  bitter  blight,  a  withered  heart, 
shall  overtake  them. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION 1 

CHAPTER  II. 
OVERTURES  OF  FRIENDSHIP    .......  .15 

CHAPTER  HI. 
JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE 80 

CHAPTER  IT. 
PRESENTIMENTS .49 

CHAPTER  7, 
THE  FIRST  CONTEST  ......  .....61 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  VISIT  TO  GARDEN  STREET 75 

CHAPTER  VH. 
THE  NEW  HOME ....91 

CHAPTER  VHL 
CLOUDS  AND  SUN-GLEAMS  ..........  102 

A  2  (V) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  EL 

rAOt 

EVENING  HOURS 116 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE  NON-ARRIVAL 128 

CHAPTER  XI. 
ABSENT  AGAIN  .     .     .     , 146 

CHAPTER  XH. 
END  OF  THE  HONEYMOON 156 

CHAPTER  Xin. 
THE  FIRST-BOKN 167 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION 183 

CHAPTER  XV, 
HELEN  SENT  TO  SCHOOL 19" 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
HELEN  RETURNS  HOME 20" 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
THE  ASYLUM 22] 

CHAPTER  xvm. 

BAFFLED   PURPOSES 234 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
BRIGHTER  HOPES 244 

CHAPTER  XX. 
UTTEB  DAYS ,..  251 


CONTENTS. 
CHAPTER  XXI. 


I1JE   SEPARATION 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


EDWARD  LINTON 


Vii 


Ttn* 

.  266 


.  279 


CHAPTER  XXm. 
THE   ERROR   DETECTED  .      .  .......   288 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


THE  INVALID 


.    .  296 


CHAPTKB  XXV. 
TH3  TOURISTS    RXTUKN * 


808 


"The  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers 
Is  always  the  first  to  be  touched  by  the  thorns." 

MOORE 


THE  WITHERED  HEART. 


CHAPTER  I. 

0f 


*  Sometimes  at  a  glance  thou  judgest  well  ;  years  could  add  little  to  thy 

knowledge  ; 

When  charity  gloweth  on  the  cheek,  or  malice  is  lowering  in  the  eye, 
When  honesty's  open  brow,  or  the  weasel-face  of  cunning  is  before  thee. 

******** 
But  often  by  shrewd  scrutiny  thou  judgest  to  the  good  man's  harm  ; 
For  it  may  be  his  hour  of  trial,  or  he  slumbereth  at  his  post." 

TUPPER. 

"  MY  ideal  of  a  man,"  said  Mrs.  Clement,  glancing 
as  she  spoke  towards  a  gentleman  who  was  just 
entering  the  room  with  a  lady  upon  his  arm.  He 
was  still  in  the  full  vigour  of  life  —  had  dark, 
earnest  eyes,  a  broad  forehead,  and  a  calm,  mild 
countenance.  His  lips,  which  were  rather  full, 
betokened  firmness  of  character. 

"  Mr.  Hardy  !"  The  lady  to  whom  the  remark 
was  made,  simply  uttered  the  name  of  the  indi 
vidual  referred  to. 

"  Yes  ;  John  Hardy.  In  him  you  see  my  ideal 
of  what  a  man  should  be." 


THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  I  never  thought  there  was  anything  very  re 
markable  about  him,"  was  answered.  "  He  is  not 
particularly  handsome." 

*'  I  think  him  handsome,  Mrs.  Percival." 

"  It  is  well,  I  suppose,  that  we  do  not  all  see> 
alike,"  replied  the  lady,  smiling.  "  Mrs.  Hardy  is, 
no  doubt,  of  your  opinion." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Mrs.  Percival.  The 
fact  is,  I  half  suspect  that  she  doesn't  appreciate 
her  husband  as  she  should  do." 

"  She  has,  one  would  think,  the  best  opportu 
nity  for  forming  a  just  estimate  of  his  character." 

"  Very  true ;  but  it  sometimes  happens,  that 
individuals  are  blind  to  the  good  qualities  of  those 
with  whom  they  are  in  daily  intercourse." 

"  It  is  in  the  daily  life  that  good  qualities  mani 
fest  themselves,  if  they  have  any  existence,"  said 
Mrs.  Percival. 

"  True  again.  But  these  good  qualities  in  others 
may  not  always  be  such  as  are  most  agreeable." 

"  I  don't  see  how  good  qualities  can  be  any 
thing  but  agreeable,"  observed  Mr?.  Percival. 

"  Justice  is  a  good  quality,"  replied  Mrs.  Cle 
ment, "  but  not  always  agreeable  to  tbe  criminal." 

"  Oh  !  I  understand  you ; — Mrs.  Ilaxdy  has  her 
peculiarities." 

"All  of  us  have  them,"  was  the  vague  reply. 
After  a  brief  pause  in  the  conversation  M« 
Clement  said — 


DIFFERENCE    OF    OPINION.  3 

"  He  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  that  I 
meet  anywhere  in  society." 

"  He  is  move  than  agreeable,"  replied  Mrs. 
Percival.  "  He  instructs  and  elevates  by  his  con 
versation.  As  to  his  being  good  company,  I  can 
agree  with  you  entirely.  But,  of  the  real  man, 
existing  behind  that,  I  have  no  knowledge,  and 
cannot  speak  in  any  positive  way.  The  exterior 
seeming  and  the  interior- life  have  too  often  very 
little  that  is  in  just  correspondence.  Mr.  Hardy  is 
very  highly  spoken  of.  My  husband  often  refers 
to  him  as  an  individual  of  the  firmest  integrity. 
*  His  word  is  as  good  as  his  bond,'  I  have  heard 
him  say  many  times.  And  yet,  Mrs.  Clement, 
there  is  something  about  the  man  that  gives  me 
an  unpleasant  impression.  Do  you  know,  I  have 
sometimes  had  the  idea  that  he  was  selfish  and 
cold-hearted." 

*'•  Why,  Mrs.  Percival !  You  astonish  me !  Cold- 
hearted  !" 

"Even  so.  But  I  must  be  more  guarded  in 
my  words.  It  is  not  right  to  speak  to  another's 
detriment  from  mere  vague  impressions.  No  doubt 
he  is  a  great  deal  better  than  I  am." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Mr. 
Hardy,  the  person  referred  to,  had  passed  to  the 
opposite  end  of  the  room  from  that  where  Mrs. 
Clement  and  Mrs.  Percival  were  seated.  Here 
he  became  the  centre  of  an  interested  circle  both  of 


4  THE  WITHERED  HEART. 

ladies  and  gentlemen.  Mrs.  Hardy  had  withdrawn 
her  hand  from  the  arm  of  her  hushand — or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  Mr.  Hardy  had  permitted 
his  arm  to  fall  in  a  way  that  indicated  his  wish, 
that  she  should  relinquish  her  hold  upon  him, 
which  was  done  instantly.  A  friend  joined  her  at 
the  moment,  and  in  a  quiet,  unohtrusive  manner, 
the  two  ladies  seated  themselves  in  a  retired  part 
of  the  room.  They  were  intimate  and  congenial; 
and  took  more  interest  in  the  things  pertaining  to 
their  inner  lives,  than  in  the  external  social  life 
around  them. 

Mrs.  Hardy  was  a  pale,  thoughtful -looking 
woman  ;  with  an  expression  of  face  rather  tending 
to  repel  than  to  attract  strangers.  When  in  re 
pose,  there  was  a  look  of  disappointment  on  her 
countenance,  which  at  times  became  almost  pain 
ful.  She  had  once  been  handsome,  and  many 
traces  of  former  beauty  still  lingered  about  lips, 
and  cheek,  and  brow.  Her  dark  dreamy  eyes  had 
once  been  full  of  dancing  light.  Now  they  seldom 
flashed ;  and  when  they  did,  the  fire  that  burned 
in  them  with  a  momentary  blaze  startled  the 
surprised  beholder.  Those  who  lemembered  her 
as  she  was  some  twenty  years  earlier,  and  con 
trasted  her  appearance  then  with  the  aspect  now 
presented,  felt  that  some  unseen  causes  were  at 
work,  sapping  the  foundations  of  her  happiness. 
So  far  as  outward  things  were  concerned,  she  had 


DIFFERENCE   OF    OPINION.  5 

Ji  the  world's  estimation  all  that  the  heart  could 
desire.  The  home  in  which  she  dwelt,  and  in 
which  were  no  vacant  places,  those  sad  remem 
brancers  of  tne  loved  and  lost,  was  elegant  even  to 
luxuriousness.  Whatever  money  could  purchase, 
to  the  fullest  extent  of  her  wishes,  was  within  her 
reach.  And  yet,  for  years,  there  had  heen  a  steady 
dimming  of  her  eyes — a  steady  fading  of  her  cheek 
— a  steady  paling  of  the  light  of  life.  Her  voice 
once  so  full  of  gushing  joy,  had  long  since  lost  its 
buoyant  tones,  and  now  rarely  lifted  itself  above  a 
low,  murmured  utterance  of  words,  that  seemed 
rather  echoes  of  feeling  than  records  of  thought. 

"  Not  my  ideal  of  a  woman,  certainly,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Clement,  referring  to  Mrs.  Hardy,  who  had 
seated  herself  not  far  distant  from  the  place  where 
the  former  was  conversing  with  her  friend.  "  To 
me,  there  is  something  very  repellent  about  her." 

"  I  have  heard  her  spoken  of,"  said  Mrs.  Per- 
cival,  in  answer  to  this,  "  as  being,  in  former  times, 
one  of  the  most  attractive  of  women — full  of  life 
arid  animation." 

"  I  remember  her  as  a  very  different  person  from 
what  she  now  appears,"  replied  Mrs.  Clement, 
"  though  I  did  not  know  her  intimately,  nor  had  I 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  her  often." 

"  The  change,  now  so  marked,  began  (as  I  am 
told)  soon  after  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Hardy.     In 
the  space  of  two  or  *hree  years,  she  looked  con- 
B 


8  THE   WITHERED   HEART 

siderably  older.  It  has  been  whispered  that  h^? 
husband  is  not,  in  the  retirement  of  home,  all  tha* 
he  appears  abroad." 

"  A  gossip's  tale !  Mere  idle  talk !"  said  Mrs. 
Clement,  with  some  warmth  of  manner.  "  I  know 
a  lady  who  resided  in  the  family  for  several  months, 
and  she  says,  that  a  kinder  man  at  home  than 
Mr.  Hardy  she  has  never  met.  She  represents 
him  as  domestic,  orderly,  and  thoughtful  of  every 
one's  comfort." 

"  What  is  her  report  touching  the  lady  ?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Percival. 

"  Not  so  satisfactory." 

"  Did  she  specify  anything  ?" 

"  No.  The  most  that  I  could  gather  from  her 
was,  that  Mrs.  Hardy  was  queer." 

"  That  means  a  great  deal,  or  nothing." 

"  Yes.  In  the  present  case  it  means  something 
undoubtedly.  Deliver  me  from  a  '  queer'  woman ! 
A  man  who  can  get  along  wilh  one  must  be  a 
saint.  Mr.  Hardy,  she  said,  was  always  mild, 
always  even-tempered,  always  the  same.  As  you 
saw  him  on  the  day  you  entered  his  house,  so  you 
saw  him  on  the  day  of  your  departure,  whether 
you  remained  a  week  or  a  month." 

"  Strong  testimony  in  his  favour  !" 

"It  is.  As  for  Mrs.  Hardy,  it  is  my  opinion 
that  she's  a  selfish,  dissatisfied  woman  at  heart,  and 
that  all  her  unhappiness  flows  from  internal  causes." 


DIFFERENCE   OF   OPINION.  7 

"  That  may  be.  Yet  in  the  absence  of  facts,  it 
is  best  not  to  suffer  our  minds  to  come  to  any 
positive  conclusions  in  regard  to  others.  Some 
great  sorrow,  I  fear,  is  at  her  heart,  and  as  a 
human  sufferer,  she  is  entitled  to  human  sympathy. 
Mine  she  has.  A  woman's  heart  is  not  always 
understood,  Mrs.  Clement ;  and  of  all  the  readers 
of  women's  hearts,  men  have  the  least  discern 
ment.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  my  theories  that  women 
have  emotions,  wants,  and  yearnings,  the  nature 
of  which  men  cannot  comprehend.  And  I  believe 
that  all  around  us  are  women  whose  very  life  is 
dying  out  daily,  because  the  men,  whom  they  call 
their  husbands,  are,  in  their  selfishness  and  sensual 
ignorance,  trampling  under  foot  what  to:  them  is 
sacred  and  holy." 

"  Doubtless,  many  women  of  refined  sentiments, 
who  are  married  to  coarse  brutes,  suffer  as  you 
intimate,"  replied  Mrs.  Clement.  "  But,  in  the 
present  case,  there  is  quite  as  much  refinement, 
and  as  high  a  feeling  of  virtue  and  honour  on  the 
part  of  the  husband,  as  on  that  of  the  wife.  Nay,  if 
I  do  not  greatly  err,  the  superiority  is  on  his  side." 

Mr.  Hardy,  who  had  been  moving  about  the 
room,  exchanging  a  few  words  with  a  friend  here, 
or  a  group  of  ladies  there,  now  advanced  to  where 
Mrs.  Clement  and  Mrs.  Percival  sat  conversing, 
and  taking  a  chair,  he  said  in  his  peculiarly 
pleasant  way — 


8  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

" Ah,  Mrs.  Clement!  I  am  glad  to  meet  your 
cheerful  face  this  evening.  How  is  your  good 
husband  ?  Is  he  here  to-night?" 

"Oh,  yes;  there  he  stands."  And  the  lady 
nodded  across  the  room. 

"  Grood  evening,  Mrs.  Percival !"  Not  quite  so 
cordially  was  this  said ;  nor  were  the  smile  and 
tiord  of  response  to  the  greeting  as  hearty  as  those 
given  by  Mrs.  Clement.  "  It  is  some  time  since 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  Mrs.  Percival. 
Have  you  been  secluding  yourself?" 

"  Home-duties  first,  you  know,  Mr.  Hardy. 
These  have  large  claims  upon  our  time  and  at 
tention." 

"True — very  true;  and  I  honotir  the  woman 
who,  from  principle,  makes  home- duties  the  most 
sacred  obligations  of  her  life  ;" — Mr.  Hardy  spoke 
with  earnestness  and  animation ; — "  for  home  is 
the  centre  of  all  good  influences.  As  the  homes 
of  the  people  are,  so  will  the  people  be.  How 
largely  is  the  world  indebted  to  good  wives  and 
mothers  !" 

"  You  regard  them  as  the  world's  regenerators?" 
said  Mrs.  Percival. 

"  If  it  is  ever  regenerated,"  »vas  answered, 
"with  them  will  rest  the  honou*.  A  woman's 
influence,  indeed,  is  all-powerful.  It  is  like 
heat,  steadily  going  forth,  all -porva dinar,  all- 
subduing.  "Wherever  it  penetrates,  it  changes 


DIFFERENCE    OF    OPINION.  9 

the  order  of  things.  Nothing  can  long  resist  its 
subtle  power.  The  very  barriers  we  lift  against  it 
soon  yield  to  its  warmth ;  and  we  feel  its  potency 
in  our  hearts,  while  yet  dreaming  that  the  outer 
most  gate  of  entrance  is  double-barred." 

"  Ah !"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  with  a  sigh.  "  It" 
this  influence  were  ahvays  for  good !  But  hea , 
destroy?,  as  well  as  revivifies.  The  fires  that  burr, 
in  the  human  heart  are  not  all  holy." 

"  Alas,  that  it  is  so !"  replied  Mr.  Hardy.  "  And, 
alas  !  that  women,  in  general,  have  not  a  higher 
sense  of  their  great  responsibility !" 

Mr.  Hardy's  eyes  wandered  across  the  room  as 
he  spoke,  and  rested — so  both  ladies  thought — 
upon  his  wife,  who  sat  conversing  with  the  friend 
she  had  joined  on  first  entering  the  room.  They 
looked  into  each  other's  faces  with  glances  of 
covert  meaning. 

"  All  duties  are  not  alike*,"  said  Mrs.  Percival. 

'*  True  !"  Mr.  Hardy  spoke  as  if  his  attention 
had  become  busied  with  some  other  theme. 

"  Nor  are  we  always  the  best  judges  of  one  an 
other's  social  obligations,"  added  Mrs.  Percival.  ' '  1 
have  sometimes  thought" — and  she  looked  steadil? 
at  Mr.  Hardy,  uttering  her  words  with  emphasis — 
"  that  we  take  a  higher  pleasure  in  defining  the 
duties  of  others,  than  in  discharging  our  own." 

The  sentiment  found  an  echo  in  Mr.  Hardy'a 
mind,  and  he  responded  with  animation — 
a  2 


10  THE    WITHERED    HEAET. 

"  Truly  spoken,  madam !  Truly  spoken .  I  have 
often  given  utterance  to  the  same  idea." 

"  And  are  we  not  in  great  danger  of  error  in 
this  defining  of  others'  'duties?'"  added  the  lady. 

"  Perhaps  we  are."  There  was  a  falling  cadence 
in  the  speaker's  tones. 

"  I  have  also  thought,"  resumed  Mrs.  Percival, 
"  that  we  help  others  to  do  their  life-duties  more 
truly  when  we  perform  our  own,  than  when  we 
indicate  to  them,  in  words  no  matter  how  fitting, 
the  paths  in  which  their  feet  should  tread.  It  is 
better  to  walk  in  the  right  way,  than  merely  to 
act  as  guide-posts, — hetter  for  others,  I  mean." 

"  AVe  may  show  another  the  way  in  which  he 
should  walk,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  "  and  yet  not 
•walk  in  the  same  way  ourselves.  No  two  life- 
paths  are  exactly  in  the  same  line." 

"  True, — hut  our  walk  is  more  inspiring  than 
our  words,  Mr.  Hardy.  Fine  sentiments  are  ad- 
mirahle  in  their  way ;  hut  an  act  has  more  power 
than  a  hundred  words.  If  we  would  all  do  what 
behoves  us  in  our  respective  spheres,  we  might  Le 
saved  the  utterance  of  many  fine  precepts  that  die 
on  the  air." 

"You  are  a  close  moralist,  Mrs.  Percival,  and 
not  one  at  all  inclined  to  flatter  weak  human 
nature." 

"  Self-flattery  is  an  easy  and  natural  thing," 
»aid  the  lady,  "  but  self-compulsion  is  a  harder 


DIFFERENCE   OF    OPINION.  H 

matter.  Your  self-compelling,  self-denying  peo 
ple,  have  of  all  men  the  widest  chanty  for  the 
shortcomings  of  others.  A  talking  moralist  is 
not  usually  a  living  one  ; — at  least,  so  rny  observa 
tion  inclines  me  to  believe." 

Mr.  Hardy  did  not  seem  disposed  to  make  any 
reply.  He  stood  a  few  moments,  in  a  musing 
attitude,  and  then  passed  to  another  part  of  the 
room,  and  joined  another  group  of  ladies. 

"  Did  you  mean  to  be  personal  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Clement. 

"  Perhaps  I  did.  At  least  I  was  using  a  probe, 
as  the  doctors  say." 

"  You  may  probe  there  to  your  heart's  content, 
Mrs.  Percival,  but  you'll  5nd  uo  unsound  place 
in  his  heart*!" 

"  You  think  him  an  angel !" 

"Oh  no!  not  an  angel;  but  a  very  perfect 
human  being." 

"  There  is  -no  human  being  so  perfect  that  his 
heart  is  entirely  free  from  evil.  The  best  man 
that  lives  is  impure  in  the  sight  of  God." 

"  True,  of  course,  in  a  general  way." 

"  Yes  ;  and  sadly  true  in  a  particular  way.  Mr. 
John  Hardy  is  no  exception. " 

"  You  arc  prejudiced." 

"  Perhaps  I  am ; — we  are  all  of  us  gij-cn  to 
prejudices,  more  or  less.  liut  that  man's  lout- 
ensemble  is,  and  always  has  been,  disagreeable  to 


1JR  THE   WITHERED   HEABT 

me ;  and  when  this  is  the  case,  I  never  feel  any 
confidence.  A  man  may  hide  his  purpose's  and 
thoughts  ;  but  there  is  a  moral  instinct  that  will 
discern  something  of  his  real  character  through  all 
his  disguises." 

"Hardly  a  fair  mode  of  judging!"  said  Mrs 
Clement. 

"  A  woman's  perceptions,  I  take  it,  are  rarely 
at  fault.  The  evil  is,  that  she  is  not  enough 
guided  by  them." 

"Reason  and  common  sense  are  safer  guides, 
Mrs.  Percival." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  in  all  cases  where  reason  and 
common  sense  can  be  called  into  play.  But  quali 
ties  of  mind  are  not  discernible  by  thought,  nor 
appreciable  by  what  we  call  common  sense. 
Justice  can  take  note  of  a  man  only  from  his 
actions.  But  it  is  a  sad  truth,  Mrs.  Clement, 
that  there  are  hypocrites  in  the  world.  The  ex 
terior,  instead  of  being  a  mirror  to  reflect  the 
soul,  is  too  often  a  veil  to  hide  its  re^l  form.  And 
so,  after  all,  in  our  estimate  of  men's  real  character, 
we  are  driven  to  depend  largely  on  the  impression 
they  make  upon  us. 

"  The  eye  rarely  deceives  us,"  said  Mrs.  Clement. 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  what  a  mystery  there  is 
in  every  eye  •  and  how  difficult  it  is  to  gaze, 
ex'-ept  for  a  few  moments  at  a  time,  into  the  eye 
of  another !" 


DIFFERENCE   OF    OPINION.  13 

"  I  have  always  found  it  so.'* 

''A  steady  eye  is  regarded  as  indicative  of 
coaiige;  also  of  conscious  integrity.  In  a  general 
way,  this  may  be  true.  But  it  will  not  always 
hold  good,  and  should  not  be  set  down  as  an  in 
fallible  rule.  I  would  pardon  any  one,  however, 
for  refusing  to  trust  a  man  whose  eye  for  ever 
wandered  from  his/' 

"  Mr.  Hardy  has  a  clear,  steady  eye,"  said  Mrs. 
Clement. 

"  I  should  say  not,"  remarked  Mrs.  Percival ; 
"  for  I  found  it  almost  impossible  to  fix  it  just 
now." 

"The  subject  of  conversation  may  have  had 
something  to  do  with  that.  1  think  a  portion  of 
what  you  said,  was  not  likely  to  be  altogether 
agreeable  to  him.' 

"  Why  not  ?  Did  I  atter  any  sentiment  to 
which  a  true  man  might  not  heartily  respond  ?" 

"  Things,  perfectly  true  in  themselves,  may  be 
said  in  a  way  that  is  disagreeable.  The  bare 
suspicion  that  truths,  expressed  as  generalities, 
are  meant  for  specific  application,  cannot  fail  to 
produce  something  akin  to  embarrassment.  And 
herein,  I  presume,  lies  the  secret  of  Mr.  Hardy's 
unsteady  eye  when  it  encountered  yours.  So,  in 
this  case,  I  should  not  think  the  eye-judgment  is 
to  be  depended  upon." 

"  I   am   willing   to   give   Mr.    Hardy   the  full 


14  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

benefit  of  your  interpretations/'  said  Mrs.  Percivali 
smiling.  "  No  doubt  be  lias  his  own  notion  as 
to  what '  stuff'  I  am  'made  of;'  and  no  doubt 
there  was  in  us  a  mutual  sense  of  repulsion.  ]\Iy 
own  impression  is,  that  his  opinion  of  me  is  just 
as  flattering  as  mine  is  of  him.  And  it  is  quite 
possible  that  he  is  a  great  deal  better  as  a  man, 
than  I  am  as  a  woman.  But  let  us  change  the 
conversation  to  a  more  agreeable  theme." 


CHAPTER  II. 

(Btertos  j 


"There  lies  no  desert  in  the  lancTof  life; 
For  e'en  that  tract  that  barrenest  doth  seem, 
Labour'd  of  tliee  in  faith  and  hope,  shall  teem 
With  heavenly  harvests  and  rich  gatherings  rife, 
Haply  no  more  Music,  and  Mirth,  and  Love, 
And  glorious  things  of  old  and  younger  art, 
Sha'l  of  thy  days  make  one  perpetual  feast  ; 
But  when  these  bright  companions  all  depart, 
Lay  there  thy  head  upon  the  ample  breast 
Of  Hope—  and  thou  shall  hear  the  angels  sing  above." 

F.  A.  EEHBLB. 

[T  was,  perhaps,  a  full  half  hour  from  the  time 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hardy  entered  the  room,  that 
Mrs.  Percival  found  herself  beside  the  latter. 
They  had  met  in  society  occasionally,  but  they 
were  not  intimately  acquainted  ;  and  all  their 
intercourse  up  to  this  time  had  been  marked  with 
a  degree  of  formality.  The  conversation  held 
with  Mrs.  Clement  had  created  something  of  a 
curious  interest  in  Mrs.  Hardy's  behalf;  and  now 
that  the  latter  was  near  her,  Mrs.  Percival  felt  a 
desire  to  know  her  better. 

"A  little  apart  as  usual,"  she  said,  smiling, 
and  with  a  certain  repressed  familiarity  of  manner 


16  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

that  took  away  the  appearance  of  ohlrusiveness, 
"  It  has  always  seemed  to  me,  Mrs.  Hardy,  that 
you  looked  down  upon  the  world  as  we  some 
times  look  upon  the  crowd  from  a  casement — 
conscious  of  its  disturbance,  yet  unaffected  by  it." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  was  the  low -spoken 
answer.  "  So  long  as  we  are  in  the  world,  we 
are  mixed  up  with  it,  and  must  feel  whatever 
disturbs  its  harmony.  I  am  no  exception,  Mrs. 
Percival." 

"And  there  is  always  something  to  disturb — • 
always  some  discordant  jar  along  the  wires.  How 
sadly  is  everything  out  of  tune !" 

"  Do  you  think  so?"  Mrs.  Hardy  lifted  her 
dark,  sunken,  penetrating  eyes  to  the  face  of  her 
companion.  "  I  have  thought  the  world  full  of 
harmonies." 

"  You  ?"  There  was  surprise  in  Mrs.  Percival's 
voice. 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  so  ?  Has  not  God  made 
it?  It  is  full  of  beauty  to  the  eyes — and  must 
be  full  of  harmonies  for  the  heart  rightly  attuned 
to  perceive  them. '  But,  ah  !  how  few  hearts  there 
are  in  tune.  It  is  here  that  the  defect  lies.  If 
the  strings  of  an  instrument  are  not  in  accord, 
the  softest  touch  will  jar  us  painfully.  The  world, 
Mrs.  Percival,  teems  with  beauty ;  there  are  sweet 
melodies  breathing  along  its  valleys,  and  echoing 
from  every  mountain.  But,  with  too  many  of 


OVERTURES   OF    FRIENDSHIP.  17 

us,   the   eyes   are   veiled    and   the   ears   dull  ol 
hearing." 

"  If  we  could  but  lift  the  veil,  and  unstop  the 
cars  !"  said  Mrs.  Percival. 

"Ah!  If!  if!  BetAveen  what  heights  of  enjoy 
ment  and  depths  of  misery  stands  this  little  word, 
as  an  impassable  barrier !  If! — How  many  hearts 
have  been  broken  on  this  rock ! — how  many  joy- 
freighted  barks  wrecked  for  ever ! " 

"  Happy  it  is  for  us  that  there  is  a  beyond," 
said  Mrs.  Percival,  a  beautiful  smile  lighting  up 
her  face  suddenly,  as  we  sometimes  see  the  summer 
lightning  leap  from  the  heart  of  a  sunset  cloud, 
r.oveiiing  it  with  radiance. 

Mrs.  Hardy  sighed,  and  her  eyes  drooped  to 
the  floor,  the  long  dark  lashes  resting  like  a  silken 
fringe  above  her  white  transparent  cheeks. 

"  You  have  hope  in  the  beyond  ?"  The  voice 
of  Mrs.  Hardy  trembled  slightly,  as  she  uttered 
these  words.  She  had  once  again  lifted  her  eyes, 
in  which  a  singular  light  was  burning. 

"  What  were  life  here,  without  this  hope !  How 
can  you  ask  the  question  ?" 

"  Forgive  me  if  my  words  have  been  unadvised 
or  distasteful,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy.  ""You  know 
not  how  earnestly — yea,  eagerly — I  haro  looked 
into  and  questioned  the  'Ltjond.'  But  no  land 
has  yet  become  visible  to  in.y  straining  ryeb — no 
answer  has  been  returi><"J  to  WT 
0 


18  THE   WITHERED    HEAttT. 

"We  have  the  great,  soul-cheering  promise  of 
life — life  everlasting." 

Mrs.  Hardy  shook  her  head,  while  a  shade  of 
disappointment  fell  over  her  countenance. 

"  What  more  do  we  want  ?"  queried  Mrs.  Per- 
cival. 

"  Everything ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hardy,  with 
an  emphasis  that  startled  her  auditor.  "  Every 
thing  !  Life  everlasting  ?  What  an  awful  thought 
to  one  into  whose  every  moment  of  life  are  crowded 
years  of  anguish  ! " 

•^  "  You  pain  me  by  your  words,"  said  Mrs.  Per- 
cival,  in  a  voice  of  pity.  "  I  meant  not  to  awaken 
a  pang  in  your  bosom." 

A  feeble  smile  lighted  the  wan  features  of  Mrs. 
Hardy,  as  she  answered — 

"  I  have  but  supposed  a  case." 

"  A  vei-y  rare  one,  I  am  sure.  Few  such  exist  j 
for  life,  in  its  worst  aspects,  has  many  compensa 
tions." 

"  Have  you  nothing  in  regard  to  this  '  beyond' 
more  definite  for -the  heart  to  rest  upon?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Hardy,  speaking  hi  a  calmer  voice. 
"  These  vague  generalities  bring  no  comfort  to 
my  spirit." 

"  Can  you  not  trust  in  the  promises  of  Him 
whose  word  is  truth  ?  '  In  my  Father's  house,' 
He  says,  *  are  many  mansions.  I  go  to  prepare 
a  place  for  you '  But  I  need  not  repeat  the  glad 


OVERTURES    OF    FRIENDSHIP.  19 

assurance  of  future  life  and  happiness  to  the 
righteous,  which  hum  like  stars  in  the  firmament 
on  every  page  of  Holy  Writ." 

"  I  know  them  by  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy,  in 
a  quiet  tone. 

"  And  they  have  lighted  your  path  many  and 
many  a  time,  when  but  for  them  your  feet  would 
have  stumbled." 

"  It  may  be  so.  I  will  not  gainsay  it.  But 
they  are  only  stars,  after  all;  merely  penetrating 
the  night.  It  is  the  day-dawn  for  which  I  am 
seeking.  But  not  a  single  gleam  yet  gilds  the 
mountain-tops.  The  cry  of  my  soul  is — '  Watch 
man,  what  of  the  night  ?'  And  I  have  yet  to  hear 
that  joyful  answer  —  'The  morning  breaketh!' 
But,  forgive  me,  my  dear  Madam !  your  words 
have  betrayed  me  into  unwonted  revelations.  Lei 
my  heart  flutter  back  to  its  own  dim  chamber 
and  fold  again  its  drowsy  wings." 

"  I  have  seen  just  enough  to  interest  me  deeply 
and  to  draw  me  strongly  towards  you,  Mrs.  Hardy 
You  seem  to  be  walking  in  darkness,  while  there 
is  light  around  you.  It  may  be  in  my  power  to 
open  a  window  upwards,  and  let  the  broad,  bright 
sunbeams  shower  down  upon  you.  Oh !  how 
gladly  would  I  do  this.  For  all  suffering  sister- 
hearts,  I  have  deep  sympathies.  Will  you,  sister 
in  suffering,  let  me  draw  near  to  you  in  spirit  ?" 

Mrs.  Hardy  reached  out  her  hand  witli  a  kind 


20  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

of  eager  instinct,  and  grasped  that  of  Mrs.  Per- 
aival.  The  movement  was  quiet  and  unobtrusive, 
and  gave  not  a  ripple  to  the  surface  of  things 
around  them. 

"  Let  us  seek  a  place  less  in  the  eye  of  observa 
tion,"  said  Mrs.  Percival.  And  the  two  ladies 
passed  from  the  crowded  rooms  into  the  beautiful 
gardeti  attached  to  the  mansion  in  which  they 
were  evening-guests. 

"  The  peace  of  nature ! "  said  Mrs.  Percival, 
glancing  up  to  the  illumined  firmament,  where 
the  stars  shone  in  tranquil  beauty.  "  Nature  is 
all  in  harmony,  and  her  words  to  the  troubled 
spirit  are,  '  Peace — be  still ! '  " 

Her  companion  did  not  answer,  though  her 
eyes  looked  upwards. 

"  Have  you  not  often  heard  this  voice  deep  in 
your  heart  ?"  said  Mrs.  Percival. 

"  Not  for  many  years,"  was  replied  mournfully. 
'*  It  is  a  long  time  since  natui'e  has  spot  en  to  me 
with  any  intelligible  meaning.  I  have  not  cared 
even  to  question  her;  for  the  book  whurein  her 
oracles  are  written  contains  no  solution  of  my 
doubts ; — no  answer  to  the  heart-cry  long  ago  sent 
forward  into  the  future. 

"What  is  it  you  ask  of  the  future?''  inquired 
Mrs.  Percival. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  a  deeplj  breathed 
sigh. 


OVERTURES  OF  FRIENDSHIP.  21 

"The  consociations — the  heart-relations — the 
affinities. — what  of  these?  what  of  these?"  Mrs. 
Hardy  spoke  with  a  kind  of  breathless  eagerness. 
Then,  in  a  calmer  way,  she  added,  "  But  this  is 
all  a  vain  struggle — all  a  vain  beating  against  the 
barriers  of  time.  Mortal  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
mortal  ear  heard  the  secret  things  of  eternity.  It 
were  better  for  some  of  us,  I  have  many  times 
thought,  that  we  had  not  been  born." 

"  Life  is  a  great  blessing,"  replied  Mrs.  Fercival, 
almost  solemnly.  "  It  is  the  highest  gift  of  the 
good  Being  who  created  us  for  happiness.  I  thank 
Him  daily  for  the  boon." 

"  Once  I  felt  the  same  thankfulness "  Mrs. 

Hardy  was  about  to  say  more,  but  she  checked 
herself,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Of  the  heart-relations,  as  to  which  you  weie 
inquiring,  my  friend,  we  may  speak  with  some 
confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  repressing  all 
excitement  of  feeling,  and  uttering  her  words  in 
a  low,  earnest  tone.  "  Heart-qualities  will  make 
heart-affinities." 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  reply,  but  bent  her  head  in 
a  listening  attitude. 

"  Love  is  the  life  of  man;  and  love  of  good,  the 
life  of  heaven.  Of  one  thing  we  may  all  be  sure: 
if  we  are  prepared  here  for  the  mansions  of  bless 
edness,  we  shall,  in  all  things,  have  to  eternity 
the  desire  of  our  hearts.  The  heart -affinities  will 
o2 


SJ2  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

all  be  true  affinities.  We  shall  possess  what  we 
love — for  our  desires  will  <ill  be  for  the  good  and 
the  true,  and  these  will  be  given  to  us  in  the 
fullest  measure." 

"Oh!  can  your  wrords  be  true?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hardy ; — then  as  if  answering  the  question  to 
herself,  she  continued,  "Yes,  yes — Love  is  the 
very  life.  Trample  upon  that,  and  the  life  perishes. 
Breathe  upon  it  coldly,  and  it  is  blighted,  as  a 
fair  plant  in  the  later  autumn.  Yes,  yes — Love 
is  life  —  at  least  woman's  life!  Oh,  that  Avill 
indeed  be  heaven,  where  the  loving  heart  can 
find  a  true  object.  Love  !  Love  !  How  that  word 
sweeps  the  spirit  backward  on  golden  pinions  to 
the  sunny  morning  of  our  lives,  when  the  air  was 
full  of  melody  and  fragrance,  and  we  dreamed 
those  sweet  dreams  of  the  future,  never  to  be 
realized.  But," — and  she  started  as  she  spoke, — 
"  forgive  me,  Mrs.  Percival !  Again  I  am  betrayed 
into  unwonted  utterances.  Ah,  your  words  have 
reached  far,  far  down,  and  stirred  the  waters  cf 
feeling  in  depths  that  have  scarcely  known  a 
ground-swell  for  years.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
that  my  heart  was  dead — or  at  least  palsied ; — 
its  green  leaf  withered  long  ago." 

"  Oh,  say  not  so,  my  dear  madam !  The  heart 
can  never  die,  while  there  is  anything  to  love; 
for  love  is  its  aliment — and  you  have  much  to 
love." 


OVERTURES   OF   FRIENDSHIP.  23 

"I  have  poured  out  love  like  water:  but — " 
she  added  Avith  a  changing  A'oice,  "  I  am  still 
betraying  myself.  There  are  life-experienced  that 
should  be  life-secrets.  Forget,  Mrs.  Percival, 
much  that  you  have  heard  me  say  to-night.  I 
could  not  have  spoken  so,  had  you  not,  strange 
as  it  may  appear,  seemed  to  me  as  a  sister — yea, 
Avhh  a  closer  affinity;  a  sister  in  spirit,  and  not 
in  the  flesh.  Some  of  your  Avords  can  never  die. 
As  seed  in  the  earth,  they  are  in  my  mind,  and 
I  can  already  feel  them  q  lii.koiing  into  life. 
Whether  the  ground  will  pro  luce  a  Aveakly  plant 
or  a  vigorous  tree,  time  only  can  determine." 

"  You  interest  me  deeply,  Mrs,  Hardy.  Shall 
we  not  be  friends  ?" 

"  True  friendships  must  be  reciprocal.  I  fear 
that  I  have  nothing  to  give,  Mrs.  Percival.  You 
Avill  not  always  find  me  even  as  I  am  now." 

"  Let  us  be  friends,"  Avas  the  simple,  earnestly- 
spoken  response  of  Mrs.  Percival.  Something 
about  Mrs.  Hardy  had,  as  she  had  intimated, 
awakened  in  her  mind  a  lively  feeling  of  interest; 
and  it  Avas  not  from  curiosity,  but  from  a  higher 
motive,  that  she  desired  to  penetrate  the  mystery 
that  closed  around  her  like  a  thick  veil.  She  IMt 
that,  from  some  cause,  the  warm  affections  of  a 
true  and  loving  heart  had  been  suddenly  chilled, 
and  that  no  sun-rays,  ardent  enough  to  melt  the 
fiozeii  fountain,  had  yet  penetrated  her  bosom. 


854  THE   WITHE11ED   HEART. 

"  Be  it  'so,"  almost  mournfully  responded  Mrs 
Hardy,"  1  want  a  friendly  bosom  oil  which  some 
times  to  lay  my  head." 

An  arm  was  thrown  lovingly  around  her  slender 
form,  and  the  kiss  of  a  sister  laid  upon  her  fore 
head. 

"  There  are  kindred  spirits  in  this  world,"  said 
Mrs.  Hardy,  in  a  voice  that  trembled.  "  Oh,  if 
ours  are  really  akin ! " 

"  They  are,  they  are — dear  friend  and  sufferer !" 
replied  Mrs.  Percival,  with  a  gush  of  feeling.  In 
a  little  while  she  added — "  Oh !  no ;  your  heart 
is  not  palsied  ;  the  green  leaf  is  not  withered!" 

A  voice  came  at  this  moment  warbling  from  the 
drawing-room — a  voice  of  uncommon  sweetness. 
The  singer  had  chosen  one  of  the  old  songs, 
burdened  with  melody,  that  old  associations  had 
rendered  dear  to  the  hearts  of  many  listeners  in 
the  crowded  rooms,  and  especially  dear  to  Mrs. 
Hardy.  Every  word  was  uttered  distinctly,  and 
every  sentiment  of  the  song  given  with  unusual 
feeling,  as  if  the  singer  were  an  improvisatrice. 

"  Beautiful ! "  said  Mrs.  Percival,  as  the  last 
exquisite  strain  died  on  the  air.  "  It  is  a  long 
time  since  I  heard  that  song,  always  a  favourite 
Never  did  a  piece  of  music  sc  crowd  yay  thoughts 
with  old  memories,  as  this  does  now." 

Mrs.  Hardy  made  no  reply. 

'*  Is  it  not  one  of  your  favourites  V 


OVERTURES    OF    FRIENDSHIP.  26 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  question 

"  Jane  !"  A  gentleman  had  come  out  into  the 
ofazza,  and  now  called  in  a  slightly  suppressed 
tone,  looking  down  the  garden  as  he  did  so.  At 
the  sound  of  his  voice  Mrs.  Hardy  gave  a  slight 
>tart. 

"  Jane ! "  the  call  was  repeated,  as  the  speaker 
stepped  from  the  porch,  and  moved  down  one  of 
the  walks. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  Mrs.  Hardy;  but  her  voice 
tvas  cold — Mrs.  Percival  thought,  indifferent. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Hardy. 
'  Won't  you  come  into  the  house  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it,"  replied  Mrs. 
[lardy,  without  hesitation,  yet  exhibiting  not  the 
slightest  interest.  "  Will  you  come  back  to  the 
bouse,  Mrs.  Percival  ?" 

"  With  pleasure."  Mrs.  Percival  walked  beside 
Mrs.  Hardy  until  they  entered  the  porch,  when 
she  fell  a  little  behind,  and  then  separated  her~ 
self  from  them ;  while  yet  she  kept  near,  a  deeply 
interested  observer  of  every  act,  expression,  and 
word,  that  passed  between  Mrs.  Hardy  and  her 
husband.  They  drew  close  to  the  piano,  whero 
the  lady  who  had  been  singing  was  still  seated. 
A  crowd  were  around  her;  some  urging  her  to 
sing  again.  She  complied,  and,  after  one  or  two 
more  pieces,  left  the  instrument. 

"  Is'ow,  Jane,  you  will  sing."     Mr.  Hardy  said 


26  THE   WITHERED    HEART 

this  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all  who  were 
standing  near. 

"  Oh,  no  !"  was  instantly  replied,  with  a  kind 
of  shuddering  horror ;  and  Mrs.  Hardy  moved 
backward.  But  her  husband,  as  Mrs.  Percival 
observed,  retained  a  firm  hold  upon  her  hand, 
which  was  drawn  within  his  arm. 

"  Now  don't  say  no,  Mrs.  Hardy."  And  two 
or  three  ladies  gathered  around  her. 

"  Oh  no,  no !  I  have  not  touched  the  piano  nor 
sung  a  note  for  years." 

"  No  good  reason  why  you  should  not  sing  now/' 
said  her  husband,  in  a  mild,  kind,  persuasive 
tone.  "  Now  do,  Jane,  oblige  the  company  and 
me.  It  will  give  us  so  much  pleasure." 

Mrs.  Hardy's  face  grew  pallid. 

"  Impossible,  Mr.  Hardy  !  How  could  you  ask 
me?"  she  said,  lifting  her  eyes  to  her  husband's 
face,  and  ga/ir.g  steadily  at  him  for  a  moment  or 
two,  with  an  expression  which,  by  those  who  saw 
it,  was  accounted  singular,  if  not  mysterious. 

"  We  should  all  do  our  part  in  ministering  to 
the  enjoyment  of  others,  you  know,"  remarked 
Mr.  Hardy,  smiling  blandly,  and  speaking  in  a 
pleasant  voice.  "  The  time  was,"  he  added, 
"  when  my  good  wife  could  stir  the  hearts  of 
crowded  assemblies  with  a  voice  which  I  am  sure 
has  not  yet  lost  its  power.  IJut  I  fear" — he  spoke 
hi  a  slightly  depressed  tone — "  that  she  is  not  as 


OVERTURES   OF   FRIENDSHIP  27 

ready  to  give  pleasure  as  she  was  a  few  years  ago 
How  is  it,  Jane  ?" 

Mr.  Hardy  recovered  his  more  buoyant  tone 
in  the  closing  sentence,  and  looked  with  eyes  of 
tenderness  upon  his  wife. 

"  I  am  sure  our  friends  will  excuse  me,"  replied 
Mrs.  Hardy,  seeming  almost  to  catch  her  breath  as 
she  spoke.  "  It  is  impossible  to  comply  with  the 
request  to  sing.  If  in  any  other  way  I  can  con 
tribute  to  the  pleasure  of  the  company,  I  will 
gladly  do  so."  So  saying,  she  moved  back  from 
die  centre  of  the  group,  and,  disengaging  her 
hand  from  the  arm  of  her  husband,  made  her  way 
quietly  to  another  part  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Hardy  sighed,  as  he  turned  partly  around, 
and  followed  her  with  earnest  glances. 

"  It  is  hardly  right  to  force  her  into  doing  what 
is  evidently  so  repugnant  to  her  feelings,"  said 
Mrs.  Percival,  with  covert  rebuke  in  her  voice. 

"  Force  her,  madam !"  replied  Mr.  Hardy  in  a 
tone  of  surprise  : — "  Heaven  knows  I  desire 
nothing  so  much  as  to  see  her  happy !  and  it  was 
only  in  the  hope  of  reviving  old  feelings  by  old 
associations,  that  I  urged  her  to  sing  just  now.  If 
she  had  complied,  she  would  have  been  happier 
for  the  effort ;  and  I  did  hope  to  have  extorted 
compliance  by  gentle  force.  Some  of  you  remem 
ber  how  exquisitely  she  once  performed,  and  how 
every  lip  would  be  hushed  into  silence  when  hei 


28  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

voice  broke  in  melody  upon  the  air.  I  would 
give  much  to  hear  it,  filling  this  room,  as  I  have 
heard  it  in  times  past." 

Mr.  Hardy  appeared  to  be  deeply  moved  ;  and, 
as  if  to  conceal  his  emotion,  turned  away  and  left 
the  little  company  that  were  gathered  around 
him. 

"  I  pity  that  man  from  my  heart,"  said  a  lady, 
speaking  to  Mrs^-Percival. 

"  Acting !"  was  the  brief  response. 

"  Oh!  no.  I  can't  believe  that,"  replied  the 
lady.  "  You  wrong  him." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Mrs.  Percival.  "  If  Mrs. 
Hardy  has  neither  sung  nor  played  for  years,  was 
it  reasonable  in.  her  husband  to  expect  her  to  do 
so  to-night  ?" 

The  lady  was  silent. 

"  It  was  quite  the  reverse,  I  say,"  added  Mrs. 
Percival,  a  little  warmly.  "  And  the  fact  of  his 
proposing  anything  of  the  kind  shows  him  to  be 
an  unreasonable  man,  and  gives  some  clue  to  the 
singular  state  of  mind  into  which  his  wrife  has 
fallen." 

The  lady  shook  her  head  in  an  incredulous 
way,  and  remark'ed  in  a  light,  almost  indifferent 
tone  of  voice, 

"  Oh  !  she  is  queer  ;"—  and  then  turned  from 
Mrs.  Percival,  with  an  air  that  was  by  no  means 
pleasant. 


OVERTURES    OF   FRIENDSHIP.  29 

"  Queer  ?"  Mrs.  Percival  said  to  herself.  "  How 
indefinite  the  word,  yet  how  certain  to  carry  pre 
judice  into  the  hearer's  mind  !  If  there  is  nothing; 
directly  evil  to  allege  against  a  woman,  detraction 
looks  wise,  and  says  '  she  is  queer ;' — and  too 
surely,  the  heart  is  closed  to  sympathy.  Ah  ' 
these  e  queer'  people  are  usually  great  sufferers 
The  world  is  not  over-patient  with  them." 

A  little  while  afterwards  she  noticed  that  Mr. 
Hardy  was  the  centre  of  a  group  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  to  whom  he  was  talking  in  a  very 
animated  way.  Mrs.  Hardy  was  not  on  his  arm. 
She  sought  for  her  through  the  crowded  rooms, 
but  not  finding  her,  went  out  into  the  garden, 
where  she  discovered  her  standing  under  an  arbour, 
lookii>g  more  like  an  immovable  statue  than  a 
living  woman.  As  she  came  up,  the  light 
streaming  out  from  the  open  windows,  and  fulling 
upon  her  cheeks,  glittered  among  the  crystal  teais, 
and  told 'that  she  was  weeping. 


CHAPTER  III. 

fife. 


M  The  heart  thtt  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers 
Is  always  tht  flrst  to  be  touch'd  by  the  thorns."—  Moom«. 

THJ.RE  are  homes,  pervaded  by  love,  as  an  atmo- 
sphtre  ;  —  homes,  in  which  heart  meets  heart  as  hy 
the  ^ower  of  a  mutual  attraction  ;  —  homes,  where 
the  Llossed  sunshine  streams  for  ever  warm  and 
golden  across  the  threshold.  Such  was  th-j  early 
home  ol  Jane  Enfield.  Her  father  was  a  man  of 
high  honour,  tender  feelings,  and  refined  tastes. 
Her  mother,  just  the  woman  that  such  a  man 
would  chocbc  for  a  life-partner,  gentle,  loving, 
confiding,  and  ^iquisitely  delicate  in  all  her  per 
ceptions.  BeaMtifully  did  they  harmonize  in  all 
things;  theirs  \vas  a  marriage  for  eternity.  In 
this  union,  two  children  only  were  horn;  and 
both  were  daughters,  of  whom  Jane  was  the 
youngest  by  several  years. 

Very  tenderly  was  she  reared  :  very  loving  were 
all  the  ministrations  of  her  home.  To  harsh 
reproofs  she  was  an  entire  stranger,  —  but  not  so 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  SI 

to  gentle  words  of  encouragement  and  praise. 
It  \vas  a  theory  with  their  father,  that  commenda- 
tiou  of  excellence  is  better  for  children  than  blame 
for  errors  and  defects.  And  he  so  fully  acted  out 
his  theory,  that  in  no  instance  was  he  ever  known 
to  utter  a  direct  rebuke.  Such  was  the  mental 
organization  of  his  youngest  daughter,  that  she 
woiild  have  felt  words  of  reproof  as  heavy  blows, 
or  as  a  blighting  wind  passing  over  the  fragrant 
blossoms  of  her  heart.  They  would  have  wrought 
a  change  in  her  whole  character,  saddening  her 
spirit,  and  filling  with  clouds  the  bright  sky  of 
her  young  and  happy  existence. 

Mr.  Enfield  was  a  man  who  loved  to  praise, 
and  this  for  all  degrees  of  excellence.  In  his 
household  he  was  ever  speaking  words  of  approba 
tion.  As  his  daughters  advanced  towards  woman 
hood,  and  achieved  excellence  in  their  varied 
studies  and  accomplishments,  his  pleasure  was 
constantly  finding  expression.  His  tastes  made 
him  appreciative;  and  praise, coming  from  so  good  a 
judge,  had  in  it  an  element  of  the  highest  pleasure. 

What  a  miniature  heaven-upon-earth  was  this 
home  in  which  Jane  Enfield  grew  up,  and  in 
which  the  blossoms  of  her  young  life  expanded 
into  womanhood!  She  herself  was  refined,  and 
gentle,  and  loving  as  an  angel.  Of  the  cold, 
hard,  selfish,  cruel,  social  world  around  her,  she 
had  no  real  knowledge,  for  her  parents  had  so 


82  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

little  in  common  with  general  society,  and  so  fe-v» 
sympathies  with  the  superficial  worldly-mindedness  • 
of  most  people  whom  they  happened  to  know, 
that  they  mingled  hut  rarely  with  others  in  any 
very  intimate  relations. 

From  their  earliest  years,  Mr.  Enfield  had  taught 
his  children  that  selfishness  is  an  evil,  and  that  the 
way  to  happiness  is  always  the  path  of  duty.  He 
had  filled  their  memories  with  life-lessons  from 
the  Holy  Word,  so  that  the  ways  of  wisdom 
might  always  he  plain  before  them ; — and  so  that 
from  Divine-  illustrations  they  might  perceive 
neighbourly  love  to  he  one  of  the  primary  elements 
of  a  truly  religious  life. 

As  a  preparation  for  living  in  the  world,  the 
home  education  of  Edith  and  Jane  Enfield  may 
be  regarded  as  defective.  They  were  kept  too 
much  aloof  from  the  world,  and  were  consequently 
strangers  to  its  real  nature.  They  did  not  know 
how  selfish  and  evil  it  is  ;  nor  how  few  of 
those  whom  they  saw  with  smiling  lips,  and  to 
whose  pleasant  words  they  hearkened,  had  any 
genuine  good  will  in  their  hearts. 

As  Jane  progressed  towards  womanhood,  her 
maturing  nature  presented  new  aspects  of  refine 
ment  ;  and  her  perceptions  of  the  loving  and  the 
beautiful  were  more  exquisite  and  delicate.  In 
form  she  was  slender,  and  below  the  medium 
stature.  Her  face,  oval  in  contour,  was  of  fault- 


JANE  EN  FIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.         '   33 

less  proportions, — her  complexion  very  fair — her 
hair,  eyebrows,  and  lashes  of  a  dark  chestnut 
brown — her  mouth  delicate,  and  finely  shaped. 
By  these  exterior  things  her  soul  partially  revealed 
itself;  and  the  revelation  charmed  every  beholder. 
Those  who  looked  into  her  eyes,  felt  that  they 
were  gazing  into  a  world  of  spiritual  beauty. 

Edith  was  of  a  less  sensitive  nature  than  Jane 
and  therefore  better  fitted  to  go  out  into  the 
world,  and  meet  with  an  enduring  heart  the 
chilling  life-experiences  that  fall  to  every  one  s 
lot.  But  it  was  not  designed  that  she  should 
encounter  the  trying  ordeal  in  store  for  the  younger 
sister.  She  had  only  gained  her  twentieth  year,when, 
called  to  a  higher  life,  mortality  was  cast  aside, 
and  the  rising  spirit  clothed  with  immortality. 

It  was  the  first  shadow  that  ever  fell  upon  Mr. 
Enfield's  household,  and  for  a  time  it  was  so  dark 
that  no  light  seemed  to  burn  in  the  dwelling. 
Jane's  heart  was  almost  paralyzed  by  the  stroke 
In  this  affliction,  a  few  valued  and  appreciating 
friends  drew  close,  in  tender  sympathy,  to  the 
stricken  family.  Among  them  was  the  ministei 
of  the  church  in  which  they  worshipped.  He 
had  always  felt  that,  on  their  part,  there  had 
been  too  great  an  isolation  from  society ;  and  that 
it  would  have  been  better  for  them,  and  for  others, 
if  they  had  widened  their  circle  of  friendly  inter 
course. 


84  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  death  of  Edith,  on  one 
of  his  visits  to  the  house  of  affliction,  where  still 
the  fountain"  of  tears  gushed  freely,  he 'said  to 
Jane  while  seeking  to  pour  into  her  spirit  the  oil 
and  the  wine  of  consolation — 

"  There  is  one  way  in  which  you  may  dra\r 
nearer  to  your  angel-sister  than  in  any  other." 

Jane  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  minister's  face  with 
a  look  of  earnest  inquiry. 

"  In  heaven  all  love  to  do  good,  and  in  blessing 
others  they  find  one  of  their  highest  delights. 
Doing  good  is  a  heavenly  employment;  Editli  is 
now,  and  will  be  for  ever  engaged  in  this  Divine 
work.  If  you  would  draw  near  to  her,  and  keep 
near  to  her,  my  dear  child,  you  must  do  on  earth 
what  she  is  doing  in  heaven." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  what  can  I  do  ?" 

How  almost  eagerly  was  the  question  asked  ! 

"  The  Lord's  work  is  all  around  us,"  said  the 
good  man.  "  It  meets  us  at  every  turn  in  our 
daily  Avalk  ;  and  in  faithfully  doing  the  work  our 
hands  find  to  do,  we  ever  serve  Him  best.  But 
there  is  one  special  good  work  upon  which  you 
may  enter,  and  in  which  I  have  long  desired  to 
see  you  engaged." 

Jane  looked  up  again  into  the  minister's  face. 

"  There  are  many  children  around  us  who  have 
little  or  no  religious  instruction  at  home.  These 
•ve  gather  into  our  Sabbath  schools,  uniting  them 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  35 

with  children  who  have  better  advantages.  Do 
you  think,  Jane,  that  there  is  upon  earth  a  more 
heavenly  employment  than  that  of  leading  such 
children  upwards  to  the  kingdom  of  our  Father  ? 
Faithful,  earnest,  loving  teachers  are  always 
needed.  In  our  own  school  they  are  wanted. 
Will  you  not  put  your  hands  to  the  work  ?  Will 
you  not  become  a  toiler  in  the  Lord's  vineyard  ? 
Your  reward  will  be  very  sweet." 

"  I  cannot  promise  now,"  she  replied.  "  But 
I  will  think  of  what  you  have  said,  and  talk  to 
father  about  it." 

Mr.  Enfield  encouraged  Jane  to  do  as  the 
minister  had  suggested,  and  to  the  gratification 
of  the  latter,  she  appeared  in  the  school  on  the 
succeeding  sabbath,  and  assumed  the  duties  of  a 
teacher.  It  was  soon  perceived  by  the  minister, 
by  the  superintendent,  and  by  many  others,  that 
Jane  Enfield's  heart  was  in  her  work,  and  that 
she  attracted  the  children  towards  her  with  a 
kind  of  fascination.  She  was  unobtrusive  and 
retiring;  none  of  the  teachers  felt  her  manner 
in  the  least  degree  repellent;  and  they  soon 
began  to  have  a  closer  knowledge  of  her  character, 
which  they  found  as  pure  and  lovely  as  lu-r 
person.  Her  deep  mourning,  her  quiet,  almost 
sad  face,  and  her  eyes  that  seemed  looking  in 
upon  her  own  spirit,  instead  of  out  upon  the 
world  of  nature,  awakened  towards  her  a  feeling 


86  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

of  tender  sympathy,  showing  itself  in  a  warm 
grasp  of  the  hand,  a  'loving  smile,  or  words  of 
kindness.  But  very  near  to  her  no  one  could 
approach ;  she  was  so  unlike  all  the  rest. 

Jane's  heart  was  in  her  work  from  the  beginning. 
The  children  interested  her  deeply;  and  as  she 
saw  them  eagerly  hanging  on  her  words  while 
she  talked  of  things  good  and  holy,  she  felt  that 
the  employment  was  indeed  heavenly,  and  that 
her  own  spirit  was  raised  to  a  purer  region. 

Tire  superintendent  was  a  young  man  named 
Hardy,  who  took  great  interest  in  the  school,  and 
was  very  active  in  all  that  concerned  its  welfare. 
He  was  the  junior  partner  in  a  wealthy  mercantile 
house,  and  was  highly  esteemed  in  the  community 
as  a  man  of  energy  and  probity.  With  the  minister 
of  the  church  he  was  a  favourite;  and  they  were 
on  terms  of  the  closest  intimacy.  Mr.  Hardy's 
appearance  was  decidedly  attractive.  He  possessed 
a  fine,  manly  person,  rather  above  than  below  the 
middle  height.  In  his  address,  there  Avas  an  air 
of  frankness,  that  won  for  him  at  the  very  first  a 
favourable  regard ;  and  so  far  as  his  general 
intercourse  with  men  and  women  was  concerned, 
this  regard  rather  increased  than  diminished.  All 
spoke  well  of  John  Hardy. 

Singularly  enough,  Jane  Enfield  was  not  favour 
ably  impressed  by  the  handsome  young  superin 
tendent.  There  was  something  about  him  which 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  37 

ehe  so  disliked,  that  she  seriously  thought  of  not 
returning  again  to  the  school  after  the  first  day's 
experience.  But  this  feeling  she  struggled  to 
overcome ;  and  was  sxiccessful,  at  least  so  far  as 
not  to  suffer  it  to  influence  her  conduct.  On  the 
succeeding  Sabbath,  she  was  in  her  place.  During 
the  afternoon,  Mr.  Hardy  took  occasion  to  speak 
a  few  words  to  her  about  the  children  in  her 
class,  and  the  modes  of  instruction  adopted  in  the 
school.  Sufficiently  well  bred  to  control  her 
feelings,  Jane  listened  with  apparent  interest,  and 
answered  with  entire  self-possession  in  her  own 
sweet  way.  The  superintendent  lingered  near 
for  a  little  while,  detained  by  an  irresistible 
attraction,  and  then  passed  on  to  another  part  of 
the  room.  The  lovely  young  girl  had  interested  him 
deeply  from  her  first  appearance  at  the  school. 

Though  an  attendant  at  the  same  church,  he 
had  heretofore  looked  upon  her  only,  as  it  were, 
from  a  distance,  and  with  no  thought  of  ever 
making  her  an  intimate  acquaintance.  Now  she 
had  been  brought  so  near,  *that  something  like 
familiar  personal  intercourse  was  involved,  and 
the  superintendent  was  in  no  way  disinclined  to 
profit  by  the  circumstance.  It  was  an  easy  thing 
for  him  to  make  occasions  for  exchanging  a  word 
or  two  with  her,  as  often  as  three  or  four  times 
during  school  hours  every  Sabbath,  and  this 
without  attracting  attention. 


88  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

The  first  unfavourable  impressions  experienced 
by  Miss  Enfield  gradually  wore  off.  She  could 
not  help  being  struck  with  the  young  superinten 
dent's  earnest  devotion  of  himself  to  the  welfare 
of  the  Sabbath  school,  and  indeed  to  all  matters 
of  public  good,  so  far  as  she  had  opportunity  for 
observation.  He  was  the  president  of  a  missionary 
society  connected  with  the  church ;  and  showed 
much  zeal  in  the  cause  for  the  promotion  of  which 
the  society  had  been  established.  He  was  also  a 
very  active  member  of  a  society  for  aiding  the 
sick  and  indigent.  The  minister,  and  several 
prominent  men  in  the  church,  came  to  the  school 
every  Sabbath,  and  showed  by  their  mannei 
towards  Mr.  Hardy,  that  they  held  him  in  no 
ordinary  estimation.  As  Jane  grew  better  ac 
quainted  with  the  teachers,  she  found  the  general 
sentiment  towards  the  superintendent  to  be  warmly 
eulogistic.  His  pi'aise  was  oil  every  lip. 

Yet,  despite  this  favourable  testimony,  there  was 
something  about  Mr.  Hardy  that  Jane  Enfield 
could  not  like.  She  blamed  herself  for  the  feeling, 
arid  strove  to  gain  a  mastery  over  it.  Thus  it 
found  a  gradual  diminution ;  and  as  it  wore  away 
in  the  progress  of  time,  the  lovely  girl  experienced 
a  sense  of  pleasure  at  the  change  in  her  impressions, 
because  she  deemed  that  change  a  tribute  of  justice 
to  the  real  worth  of  a  man  whom  others  seemed 
to  regard  as  the  possessor  of  every  moral  excellence. 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  39 

It  was  soon  plain  to  others,  if  not  to  Jane 
herself,  that  Mr.  Hardy's  tenderer  sentiments 
were  becoming  interested  in  the  young  teacher. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  few  months,  he  found  reason 
for  calling  upon  her  at  her  father's  house,  during 
the  Sahbath  intervals,  and  this  almost  every 
week  The  alleged  purpose  of  these  visits  Avas 
to  consult  with  her  on  some  special  matters  con- 
ceiTiiiig  the  school ;  the  real  object  to  gain  a  more 
intimate  personal  acquaintance  with  herself  and 
her  family.  The  pretexts  for  calling  were  gene 
rally  framed  with  much  ingenuity,  and  as  they 
were  supported  by  facts,  they  readily  lost  tho 
aspect  of  excuses.  One  week  he  had  discovered 
that  a  scholar,  absent  from  her  class  on  the  pre 
ceding  sabbath,  was  ill,  and  he  called  to  suggest 
the  propriety  of  a  visit  to  the  invalid  ;  on  the 
next,  the  absence  of  another,  he  had  learned,  was 
occasioned  by  a  lack  of  decent  clothing,  her  parents 
being  poor,  and  he  had  called  to  enlist  the  teacher's 
generous  sympathies  in  behalf  of  the  child.  There 
was  always  a  reason  for  calling,  which  removed 
every  suspicion  from  the  mind  of  Jaiie,  that  the 
excellent  superintendent  had  any  other  purpose 
than  to  enlist  her  heart  more  deeply  in  the  good 
work  to  which,  in  a  spirit  of  genuine  regard  foi 
others,  she  had  put  her  hands. 

Mr,  Enfield,  who  knew  Mr.  Hardy  by  common 
reputation,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  meeting  him 


40  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

occasionally  in  business  circles,  had  formed  in  a 
general  way,  a  favourable  opinion  regarding  bin* 
The  fact  of  his  calling  to  see  Jane,  explained 
though  it  always  was  by  the  (laughter  to  be  only 
a  visit  having  reference  to  her  duties  in  the 
Sabbath  school,  produced  a  feeling  of  uneasiness 
on  the  father's  part,  and  caused  him  not  only  to 
observe  the  young  merchant  more  closely,  but  to 
institute  inquiries  about  him  in  all  directions. 
The  result  of  these  inquiries  was  perhaps  more 
satisfactory  than  personal  observation.  All  men 
spoke  of  him  in  words  of  praise. 

As  he  had  impressed  the  daughter,  so  did  Mr 
Hardy  impress  the  father.  There  was  a  tone  ot 
character  about  the  man  that  had  in  it  something 
disagreeable  to  both  of  them.  Yet  opposed  to 
this  was  the  fact  of  a  bland,  courteous,  gentlemanly 
exterior,  united  with  a  winning  grace  of  mannei 
rarely  seen,  a  devotion  of  nearly  all  the  time  not 
„•  ecu  pied  in  business  to  deeds  of  general  bene 
volence  ;  and  a  reputation  among  his  fellow-men 
that  was  unmarred  by  a  single  blemish.  He  had, 
besides,  a  well-stored  mind ;  and  his  tastes,  if 
not  so  thoroughly  educated  and  refined  as  those 
of  Mr.  Enfield  and  his  daughter,  were  yet  more 
than  ordinarily  appreciative. 

Steadily  did  Mr.  Hardy  draw  nearer  and  nearei 
to  Miss  Enfield,  attracted  by  a  loveliness  the 
fascination  of  which  was  irresistible ;  and  as 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  41 

steadily,  under  the  charm  of  his  winning  manners, 
did  the  feelings  of  repulsion  at  first  awakened  in 
her  heart  gradually  wear  away.  After  the  lapse 
of  a  few  months,  Mr.  Hardy  became  a  constant 
visitor  at  the  house.  This  could  not  long  continue 
without  a  declaration  of  his  purpose,  which  was 
first  made  to  the  father. 

Though  not  altogether  unexpected,  the  declara 
tion  seriously  embarrassed  Mr.  Enfield,  for  his 
mind  was  very  far  from  being  made  up  on  a  sub 
ject  which  had  troubled  him  from  the  first  moment 
of  its  unwelcome  intrusion  upon  his  thoughts. 

"  Frankly,  Mr.  Hardy,"  was  his  answer,  "  I  can 
not  say  that  your  proposition  gives  me  pleasure." 

It  was  plain  from  the  way  in  which  the  response 
was  met  by  the  young  merchant,  that  he  had  an 
ticipated  an  entirely  different  reception.  His  whole 
manner  was  that  of  a  man  suddenly  startled  by 
an  unexpected  and  disagreeable  event. 

"  May  I  ask  the  reason  why  ? "  he  inquired,  as 
soon  as  he  had  recovered  a  little,  and  could  trust 
himself  to  speak.  "  Does  not  my  character  stand 
fair  in  the  community?" 

"  None  stands  fairer,  Mr.  Hardy,"  was  the  calm 
reply. 

"  Have  you  any  ground  of  personal  objection 
against  me,  Mr.  Enfield?" 

"  No,  sir.  Personally  I  have  for  you  a  high 
regard." 


418  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

"  My  worldly  prospects  are  gbc  d.  I  have 
already  accumulated  some  property,  and  I  have 
business  relations  of  the  safest  and  most  pro 
mising  character." 

"A  consideration  that  should  always  be  secord- 
ary  in  matters  of  the  heart,"  said  Mr.  Enfield, 
"  and  one  that  has  little  weight  in  my  mind. 
Marriage,  Mr.  Hardy,  is  a  thing  of  such  high 
importance,  that  we  should  keep  all  the  motives 
affecting  its  consummation  as  far  above  mere  pru 
dential  considerations  as  possible.  Internal  fitness 
should  be  the  great  operative  law  in  all  such 
unions.  Harmony  of  tastes  and  ends  should  first 
be  regarded.  It  is  this,  my  young  friend,  that 
makes  me  hesitate.  So  far  as  external  things  are 
concerned,  I  see  only  the  desirable  in  such  a  con 
nexion  as  you  propose;  but  of  the  heart-fitness 
I  am  not  so  well  assured." 

"I  only  wish,"  replied  Mr.  Hardy,  with  con 
siderable  ardour,  "  that  I  had  a  window  in  my 
breast,  so  that  you  could  look  down  into  my 
hjeart." 

This  answer  to  his  words  did  not  produce  the 
favourable  effect  that  was  intended.  It  was  re 
garded  by  Mr.  Enfield  as  something  dramatic. 
"  None  but  the  Great  Creator  can  look  down  into 
the  heart's  secret  chambers,"  was  replied,  .almost 
solemnly  to  this  remark.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
Mr.  Enfield  continued — 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  43 

"A  woman's  affections,  Mr.  Hardy,  are  a  sacred 
thing, — they  are  her  very  life;  and  he  who  takes 
upon  himself  their  guardianship,  assumes  a  holy 
and  responsible  duty.  A  true  woman  loves,  inde 
pendent  of  all  worldly  circumstances ;  but  if  she 
discovers,  after  marriage,  that  she  has  mistaken 
appearances  for  qualities,  and  that  the  beautiful 
land  outspread  before  her  enchanted  vision,  and 
towards  which  her  love-laden  bark  moved  gently 
onwards,  was  only  a  deluding  mirage,  the  after 
desolation  of  heart,  reaching  through  all  her  sad 
lifetime,  words  have  no  power  to  describe.  Ah, 
sir !  in  view  of  this,  you  must  not  wonder  that 
I  hesitate,  when  the  question  of  my  daughter's 
happiness  or  misery  is  the  theme  of  consideration: 
and  this  I  regard  as  the  question  now  at  issue. 
Your  happiness,  also,  is  no  less  at  stake ;  for  the 
man  who  is  destined  to  fail  in  mee»ng  the  heart- 
anticipations  of  the  woman  he  weds,  is  surely 
planting  thorns  in  his  own  pillow,  as  he  leads 
her  to  the  altar.  Wretchedness  in  marriage  is 
a  mutual  doom ;  though  in  the  sad  relations, 
woman  always  suffers  most,  because  she  feels  the 
deepest.  There  are  few  minds  so  delicately  organ 
ized  as  that  of  my  daughter,  and  the  knowledge 
of  this  has  always  made  me  tremble  when  the 
thought  of  her  marriage  has  come  as  an  unwelcome 
intruder.  Think  Avell  of  this  matter,  Mr.  Hardy 
— look  closely  into  your  own  heart ; — pause  hero. 


44  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

and  re-examine  the  whole  question.  It  is  impos 
sible,  from  the  few  opportunities  you  have  had  of 
observing  my  daughter,  that  you  can  understand 
her  true  character ;  and  any  mistake  will  prove 
fatal  to  the  peace  of  both.  She  is  not  an  ordinary 
woman,  with  ordinary  perceptions  and  views  of 
life.  She  will  not  be  happy  in  marriage,  as  a 
large  class  of  women  are  happy.  With  her,  it 
will  be  positive  happiness  or  positive  misery.  For 
your  own  sake,  therefore,  Mr.  Hardy,  as  well  as 
for  the  sake  of  my  daughter,  give  this  subject  a 
renewed  consideration." 

"  I  deeply  appreciate  all  you  say,"  was  the  un 
hesitating  answer.  "  I  have  pondered  the  subject 
long  and  well,  and  have,  from  the  beginning  of 
my  acquaintance  with  your  daughter,  observed 
her  with  the  utmost  care.  My  position,  as  super 
intendent  of  the  school  where  she  is  a  teacher, 
has  given  me  good  opportunities  for  knowing  her 
true  character ;  and  every  aspect  of  it  has  rilled 
me  with  admiration.  .Truly  and  tenderly  do  I 
love  her,  Mr.  Enfield ;  and,  I  trust,  that  I  am  not 
at  all  unworthy  to  be  loved  by  her  in  return.  This 
I  know,  that  I  am  ready  to  devote  all  I  have  and 
am  to  the  work  of  making  her  future  life  happy. 
If  to  my  hands  is  given  the  task  of  making  the 
path  in  which  her  feet  are  to  walk,  it  shall  be 
smooth,  and  straight,  and  soft  as  a  bed  of  roses. 
If  the  helm  of  hei  life-bark  be  resigned  to  m/j, 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  45 

she  shall  be  piloted  through  tranquil  waters.  Ah, 
sir !  do  not  fear  for  the  future  of  your  child.  If 
love  be  the  aliment  of  her  soul,  love  shall  be  her's 
in  unstinted  measure.  Give  her  to  me,  Mr.  En- 
field,  and  I  will  treasure  the  precious  gift  with 
more  than  a  miser's  affection  for  his  hoardel 
gold." 

Mr.  Enfield  sighed.  The  impression  made  upou 
him  was  that  of  making  him  look  upon  Mr. 
Hardy  as  one  in  a  play,  who  acted  his  part  with 
enthusiasm.  Being  a  man  with  almost  intuitive 
perceptions  of  character,  lie  was  not  easily  to  be 
deceived. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  daughter  on  this  sub 
ject?"  he  asked,  almost  abruptly. 

"  No,  sir,"  was  returned  with  the  utmost  suavity 
of  manner.  "  Not  until  you  were  advised  of  my 
sentiments,  could  I  in  honour  make  them  known 
to  her." 

"  I  must  have  time  for  reflection  and  consulta 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Enfield. 

"  Certainly,  certainly."  There  was  a  manifest 
depression  in  the  young  man's  tones.  "  And  yet 
I  had  hoped  that  my  frank  avowal  of  a  preference 
for  your  daughter,  would  have  met  with  as  frank 
an  acceptance  in  return." 

Mr.  Enfield  did  not  reply  to  this  remark,  which, 
while  it  failed  to  raise  the  suitor  in  his  estimation, 
had  a  depressing  effect  upon  his  own  mind.  He 

K2 


46  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

saw  that  the  young  man's  perceptions  were  at 
fault ; — that  the  objections  he  had  endeavoured  to 
urge  were  not  clearly  comprehended; — that,  in 
his  eagerness  to  possess  a  coveted  object,  he  was 
willing  to  take  all  risks,  even  the  risk  of  his 
child's  happiness ; — that  the  momentous  act  of 
marriage  was  not  elevated  in  his  thought  into  any 
thing  like  its  just  importance. 

"  How  long  a  time  will  you  require,  Mr.  En- 
field?"  The  voice  and  manner  of  Mr.  Hardy 
betrayed  a  great  change  in  his  feelings.  He  had 
come  to  the  father  as  a  suitor,  with  a  full  measura 
of  self-confidence.  No  one  knew  better  than 
himself  the  high  place  he  held  in  the  good  opinion 
of  all  men ;  and  no  one's  good  opinion  on  that 
subject  exceeded  his  own.  He  was  virtuous  ;  not 
so  much  the  result  of  internal  purity,  as  from  a 
certain  hereditary  coldness,  to  which  was  added  a 
powerful  accessory — love  of  reputation.  He  was 
active  in  works  of  benevolence;  but  the  main 
stimulus  was  the  praise  of  men.  He  was  amiable, 
affable,  self-denying — in  a  word,  gentlemanly  in 
his  intercourse  with  all  classes  of  people ;  but  the 
''  window  in  his  breast,"  one  of  his  favourite 
allusions,  would  have  shown  the  moving  impulse 
to  be  meanly  selfish.  Nor  was  he  any  stranger 
to  the  fact,  that  he  had  an  attractive,  manly  person, 
such  as  any  woman  might  be  proud  of  in  a  hus 
band.  Externally,  therefore,  he  regarded  himself 


JANE  ENFIELD'S  EARLY  LIFE.  47 

worthy  to  claim  the  hand  of  any  lady  in  the  land; 
and  self-love  in  no  way  made  him  depreciate  his 
internal  qualities. 

Mr.  Enfield's  hesitation  wounded  the  suitor's 
complacent  self-estimation.  He  was  not  greatly 
surprised  at  the  father's  manifested  reluctance  tc 
yield  his  consent  at  the  first  word.  Such  yielding 
would  scarcely  have  seemed  decorous.  But  after 
the  more  earnest  explanation  of  himself,  which  he 
had  given  in  response  to  the  father's  natural  ex 
pressions  of  doubt  ns  to  his  ability  to  make  his 
daughter  happy,  and  after  his  ardent  declaration 
of  deep  love,  he  looked  only  for  a  generous  acqui 
escence.  The  change,  produced  by  a  state  of  things 
so  unexpected,  was  apparent  in  the  altered  man 
ner  in  which  he  asked  the  question — "  How  long 
a  time  will  you  require,  Mr.  Enfield?" 

"A  week — perhaps  two."  The  voice  was  de 
pressed — almost  sad. 

"  Two  weeks,  Mr.  Enfield  ?  The  days  of  so 
long  a  period  will  seem  to  me  as  years  ! " 

The  tones  in  which  this  was  said  sounded  over 
wrought,  and  the  manner  a  little  too  dramatic. 
Neither  made  any  favourable  impression  on  Mr. 
Enfield,  who  was  a  man  of  accurate  perceptions, 
and  one  who  could  not  be  deceived  when  every 
moral  faculty  was  aroused  into  keenest  action. 

"  Two  weeks  may  be  a  very  brief  period  in 
which  to  settle  questions  of  infinite  importance. 


48  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

Let  me  enjoin  upon  you  to  pass  the  time  in  the 
most  rigid  self-inquiry.  Never  have  you  stood, 
as  noAV,  at  a  point  in  life  where  the  next  advanc 
ing  footstep  was  destined  to  determine  so  much  of 
good  or  evil  in  all  the  coming  future.  That  step 
once  taken,  it  can  never  be  retraced.  Onwards 
in  the  new  way  you  must  go,  be  the  path  rough 
or  smooth, — the  sky  bending  over  you  bright  with 
sunshine,  or  veiled  by  the  cloudy  tempest.  And 
remember,  my  young  friend;  that  you  will  not 
walk  this  way  alone.  Another,  and  one  capable 
of  suffering  far  beyond  yourself,  must  be  your 
wretched  companion,  should  the  union  you  seek 
prove  to  be  disastrous.  Oh  !  no,  sir !  two  weeks 
for  consideration  is  not  a  long  period." 

For  some  minutes  the  two  sat  in  su'.rxe,  each 
with  his  eyes  cast  down.  Then  Mr.  I'vrJ.y  paid, 
in  as  calm  a  voice  as  he  could  assume — 

"  In  a  fortnight  I  will  see  you  a;,rJr ,  and  with 
the  fondly  cherished  hope  in  my  L»,  vJ,  that  ill  I 
have  asked  will  be  cheerfully  gh  a  ' 

And  so  they  parted,  neithei  of  them  fueling 
happier  for  the  interview. 


CHAPTER  IV- 

JJrtstntarts. 

••  Lean  not  on  earth  ;  'twill  pierce  thee  to  the  heart) 

A  broken  reed  at  best,  but  oft  a  spear: 
.  On  its  sharp  point  peace  bleeds,  and  hope  expires." 

YUCNO. 

")N  the  following  Sabbath,  one  teacher  was  miss- 
ing  from  school,  who  had  never  been  away  from 
her  post  since  .she  assumed  the  holy  office  of 
lifting  the  thoughts  of  little  children  unwards 
towards  heaven.  This  absence  was  noted,  and 
the  questions,  "  Where  can  she  be  ?" — "  Is  sh<? 
sick  ?" — and  the  like,  passed  from  lip  to  lip.  The 
superintendent  had  no  satisfactoiy  reply  for  any 
of  the  queries  made  to  him  on  the  subject.  It  was 
moreover  observed  by  many,  that  he  had  a  de 
pressed,  troubled  aspect;  and  that  his  duties  were 
performed  with  scarcely  anything  of  his  accus 
tomed  ardour. 

Jane  had  appeared  at  church  in  the  morning 
with  her  parents ;  after  the  service,  however,  she 
had  failed  to  linger,  as  was  sometimes  the  case, 
to  meet  a  congenial  friend,  but  had  hurried  away, 
so  that  when  Mr  Hardy  gained  the  vestibule  of 


50  THE   WITHERED   HEART 

the  church,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Her 
non-appearance  at  school  in  the  afternoon  he 
regarded  as  an  ill  omen. 

On  the  following  Sabbath  the  young  man,  in  a 
state  of  nervous  nispense.  waited  at  the  church 
door,  a  thing  unusual  with  him,  in  the  hope  of 
receiving  at  least  one  glance  from  the  beautiful 
eyes  of  Miss  Enfield ;  and  this  glance  was  thrown 
upon  him.  The  close  veil  was  partially  drawn 
aside,  as  she  came  up  the  broad  stone  stairway 
into  the  vestibule,  and  one  ray  of  intelligence  sent 
as  a  messenger  of  love  to  his  heart,  giving  to  every 
nerve  of  his  being  a  delicious  thrill. 

"  I  can  wait  now,"  he  said  within  himself,  as 
he  entered  the  church  and  made  his  way  to  his 
own  seat. 

"  Her  heart  is  true  as  the  needle.  That  glance 
has  scattered  all  doubt  to  the  wind.  She  is  mine 
— mine — mine  !" 

The  failure  of  Miss  Enfield  to  appear  in  her 
place  at  the  school  that  afternoon  did  not  seriously 
trouble  the  superintendent.  He  ascribed  it  to  the 
right  cause — a  maidenly  delicacy  which  made  her 
shrink  from  meeting  him  under  the  circumstances 
already  alluded  to. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  period  named  by  Mr 
Enfield,  the  young  merchant  called  to  receive  the 
answer  to  his  proposal.  It  was  favourable ; — • 
more  favourable  however,  in  appearance  than  in 


PRESENTIMENTS.  51 

reality.  Mr.  Enfield  was  very  far  fiom  being 
satisfied.  HJ  did  not  believe  that  bis  daughter 
would  be  happy  with  Mr.  Hardy,  as  a  woman 
should  be  happy  in  married  life.  He  did  not 
believe  him  to  be  one  who  had  a  just  perception  of 
woman's  nature,  or  who  was  capable  of  appre 
ciating  her  wants.  But  the  handsome,  specious, 
courteous  lover  had,  it  was  clearly  seen,  already 
made  too  deep  an  iwipression  on  Jane's  mind  to 
leave  any  hope  for  a  successful  opposition.  And 
so,  after  many  long,  sad,  and  perplexing  con 
ferences  between  the  father  and  mother,  it  was 
decided  to  let  things  take  their  course. 

For  nearly  a  year  after  consent  was  yielded  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enfield,  they  managed 
to  defer  the  period  of  their  daughter's  marriage, 
all  the  while  cherishing  a  faint  hope  that  some 
thing  would  occur  to  prevent  the  fulfilment  of  a 
betrothal  which  had,  in  their  opinion,  no  golden 
promise.  During  this  year,  Mr.  Hardy  was  ob 
served  with  eyes  possessing  a  deeper  intuition 
than  he  imagined  possible ;  and  phases  of  his 
character  were  seen  which  he  little  suspected  that 
any  one  could  discern.  The  confidence  of  pos 
session  threw  him  more  off  his  guard  ;  and  natural 
impulses  imaged  themselves  with  more  and  more 
truthfulness  in  the  ordinary  actions  of  his  lite. 
Mr.  Enfield  discovered,  to  his  dismay,  that  be-low 
the  fair,  attractive  surface  of  the  young  man,  was 


52  THE  WITHERED   HEA/W. 

a  cold,  selfish  spirit,  that  with  ?  steady,  scarcely 
perceived,  but  never  intermitted  gravitation,  drew 
everything  to  the  centre  of  his  life,  and  made  all 
things  minister  to  his  will; — that,  in  private,  as 
well  as  in  public,  he  acted  freely  only  where  he 
could  keep  things  under  his  own  control ; — that 
although  he  was  not  given  to  contention,  and 
rarely,  if  ever,  sought  to  gain  his  ends  by  open, 
manly,  outspoken  opposition  to  the  opinions  or 
modes  of  action  suggested  by  ojhers,  he  yet  often 
seemed  to  yield  when,  in  reality,  he  was  but  de 
vising  the  hidden  means  for  carrying  out  his  own 
views,  and  that  in  a  manner  so  unobtrusive  as  not 
to  disturb  the  placid  current  in  which  events  were 
flowing. 

There  was  another  fact,  the  discovery  of  which 
filled  the  mind  of  Mr.  Enfield  with  gloomy  fore 
bodings.  Almost  imperceptibly,  a  change  was 
coming  over  the  mind  of  his  daughter.  The  girlish 
cheerfulness,  lost  for  a  time  on  the  death  of  her 
sister,  had  come  back  with  all  its  sweet  influences  ; 
but  now  it  was  again  passing  away — passing,  the 
father  believed,  never  more  to  return.  So  far  as 
lie  could  see,  the  conduct  of  her  lover  was  not 
marked  by  any  disregard  for  her  wishes  ;  and  yet 
it  often  happened  that  she  was  pensive, — to  use 
no  stronger  word, — after  meeting  him,  and  passing 
a  few  hours  in  his  company. 

As  the  day  finally  appointed  for  the  marriage 


PRESENTIMENTS.  53 

diew  near,  Jane's  spirits  were  depressed  rather 
than  elated ;  and  to  the  frequent  congratulations 
of  friends  on  account  of  the  approaching  nuptials, 
she  rarely  responded  with  any  degree  of  warmth. 
It  was  no.  uncommon  thing  for  her  mother,  if 
coining  upon  her  suddenly,  to  find  her  in  tears ; 
and  when  questioned  as  to  the  reason,  she  always 
answered  with  evasion. 

"  I  fear,  my  child,"  her  mother  said  to  her,  a 
few  weeks  hefore  the  time  when  the  marriage 
rites  were  to  he  celebrated ;  "  I  fear  that  some 
thing  is  wrong." — She  had  found  her  weeping. — 
"Will  you  not  open  all  your  heart  to  me?  If 
there  has  heen  any  error  in  regard  to  the  true  state 
of  your  own  feelings, — if  Mr.  Hardy  is  not  really 
loved  as  a  woman  should  love  the  man  who  is  to 
be  her  life-companion — " 

"  Dear  mother !"  exclaimed  the  daughter,  break 
ing  in  upon  the  sentence,  and  looking  up  into  hei 
face,  while  a  light  beaming  from  her  countenance 
glistened  in  the  tears  that  were  falling  over  her 
cheeks — "  No  woman  ever  loved  more  deeply,  more 
truly,  than  I  love;  and  I  can  imagine  no  path  in 
life  that  would  not  lead  through  a  wilderness  were 
he  not  by  my  side.  No,  mother ;  do  not  doubt 
my  heart.  It  is  true  in  every  impulse." 

"  Then  why  is  it,  my  precious  child  !  that  I  so 
often  find  you  in  tears  I    Why  are  you  so  changed  ? 
K>  unhappy  I" 
F 


54  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

"  I  am  not  unhappy ! "  Jane  spoke  with  sur 
prise  in  her  voice. 

"  You  are  not  as  you  were.  There  is  a  shadow 
on  your  feelings.  You  are  much  alone — are  silent 
— often  weep.  Ah,  my  child !  these  are  not  the 
signs  of  happiness." 

"  Marriage  is  a  very  solemn  thing,  mother." 
Jane  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  full  of  emotion  and  full 
of  meaning. 

"  It  is,  my  dear  girl,"  was  the  simple  response. 

"  And  as  I  approach  the  hour  when  I  am  to 
take  upon  myself  those  solemn  vows  and  sacred 
duties,  I  feel  a  shrinking  and  trembling  that  grow 
more  oppressive  every  hour.  Dear  mother  !  what 
if  I  should  fail  to  be  to  my  husband  all  that  he 
anticippVs?  What  if  I  should  disappoint  him, 
and  lie  should  turn  from  me  coldly,  as  one  not 
worthy  of  his  love?  The  thought  haunts  me 
daily,  disturbs  my  sleep,  and  fills  my  eyes  with 
tears !  If  it  should  prove  thus,  my  heart  would 
break.  I  could  not  live  if  he  grew  cold  towards 
me — if  he  were  ever  to  regard  me  with  indiffer 
ence  !" 

"  These  are  but  ideal  fears,  my  child,"  replied 
Mrs.  Eufield.  "  Do  not  cherish  them  a  single 
moment ;  for  it  sometimes  happens  that,  by  che 
rishing  the  ideal,  we  give  to  it  an  actual  existence. 
A  loving  heart  will  keep  alive  responsive  feelings; 
and  a  wife  who  truly  loves,  and  truly  desires  to 


PRESENTIMENTS.  55 

bless  her   husband,  cannot,  unless   in  strangely 
exceptional  cases,  fail  to  receive  her  reward." 

Jane  sighed  deeply.  After  a  moment  or  two, 
she  said,  "  The  lot  of  an  unloved  wife,  mother ! 
Oh  !  is  it  not  a  terrible  thing  ?  Death  would  be, 
instead,  a  sweet  consummation." 

"  How  strangely  you  talk,  my  child !  What  is 
the  meaning  of  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Enfield.  "  Can 
it  be  that  you  have  reason  to  question  the  love 
Mr.  Hardy  bears  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no — no — no,  mother !"  was  almost  wildly 
answered,  —  "not  the  shadow  of  a  reason.  I 
know  that  he  loves  me  with  his  whole  heart.  I 
know  that  I  am  very  dear  to  him,  and  that  he 
will  do  all  in  his  power  to  make  me  happy.  But, 
mother" — and  she  spoke  more  calmly — "men 
have  a  different  mental  organization  from  that  of 
women.  We  are  very  unlike  each  other,  and 
cannot  always  comprehend  each  other's  states 
and  feelings." 

"  True,  my  love." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  always  understand  Mr. 
Hardy  ;  and  I  am  afraid  he  does  not  always  under 
stand  me." 

"  Time,  and  closer  union,  will  enable  you  to 
understand  each  other  better,"  said  Mrs.  Eniield. 

Jane  sighed  again,  as  she  remarked — 

"Ah!  it  is  that  closer  union,  involving  a 
closer  vision,  that  I  strangely  fear.  Shall  I  be  to 


66  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

him  then  as  I  am  now  ?  Coldness,  indifference, 
blame,  would  kill  me  outright !" 

"  Do  not  keep  your  high  ideal  of  the  married 
life  so  distinctly  before  your  mind, "  said  Mrs. 
Eufield.  "  None  are  perfect  here — and  there  are 
few  perfectly  happy  marriages.  Do  not  expect  too 
much.  Be  ready  to  yield  forbearance,  as  you 
must  receive  it.  Mr.  Hardy  is  an  inhabitant  of 
earth ;  a  human  being  with  hereditary  evils  to 
overcome ; — not  a  purified  spirit  in  heaven.  He 
cannot  be  always  the  same  to  you,  nor  can  he 
always  present  the  same  loving  aspect ;  for  in  the 
purification  and  elevation,  through  which  I  trust 
he  is  passing,  changing  moods  are  inevitable,  and 
you  must  be  prepared  for  them,  and  meet  them 
with  patience  and  fortitude.  After  every  evening 
of  shadows  and  depi'ession,  will  succeed  the  morn 
ing,  with  its  cheering  light;  and  if  the  evening 
be  spent  in  prayer  and  hope,  instead  of  in  gloomy 
repining,  the  morning  will  be  all  the  brighter, 
and  the  day  that  succeeds  will  be  the  longer. 
The  path  of  life  Avinds  not  always  among  flowers, 
my  child.  The  dreary  desert  must  be  passed,  as 
well  as  the  fragrant  meadows.  The  Pilgrims 
dwelt  not  always  upon  the  delectable  mountains/' 

"Ah,  mother!"  replied  Jane,  weeping  freely; 
"  I  know  it  must  all  be  as  you  say.  What  I  fear 
is,  the  failure  of  strength  to  endure  the  roughness 
and  trials  of  the  way." 


PRESENTIMENTS.  57 

"  Tt  is  from  the  STRONG  that  we  receive  strength. 
c  As  the  day  may  demand,  shall  our  strength  ever 
be.'  Do  not  doubt — do  not  tremble — do  not  fear. 
If  the  deeper  and  sometimes  sadder  experiences  of 
life  bring  pain  to  the  mind,  they  also  give  new 
capacities  fur  enjoyment.  There  is  a  blessed  corn- 
peiisativeness  in  every  life-relation.  Even  when 
the  all-eclipsing  sun  has  withdrawn,  and  left  the 
night  to  reign  for  a  season,  the  firmament  has 
still  its  myriads  of  stars." 

In  such  a  conference,  almost  on  the  eve  of  the 
wedding-day,  how  little  was  there,  alas !  for  a 
spirit  so  delicately  organized  as  that  of  Jane 
Enfield,  to  rest  upon  in  hopeful  anticipations.  The 
words  of  her  mother  did  not  throw  a  single  ray 
upon  the  future,  nor  give  any  new  strength  to  her 
heart;  but  rather  oppressed  her  Avith  a  vague 
sense  of  coming  evil. 

The  approaching  nuptials  gave  to  the  lovers  a 
more  unreserved  intimacy.  Mr.  Hardy  came  very 
frequently  to  the  house ;  while  Mr.  Enfield  en 
couraged  his  visits  and  intimacy,  in  order  to  read 
him  the  more  closely.  As  the  young  man,  from 
feeling  more  and  more  at  home  in  the  family, 
indulged  in  greater  freedom  of  action,  so  that  his 
outer  seeming  gave  a  more  exact  image  of  his 
inner  life.  Jane  was  constantlv  made  sensible  of 
one  strong  point  of  contrast  between  him  and  her 
father.  Very  gentle,  very  thoughtful;  aud  very 
i2 


58  THE   WITHERED    HEATIT 

tender  was  Mr.  Enfield  in  his  paternal  relntion. 
He  never  met  his  daughter  without  a  pleasant 
word,  nor  left  her  without  a  parting  kiss.  Every 
one  of  her  acts,  that  in  any  way  involved  a  service, 
was  sure  to  have  its  reward  in  some  approving 
acknowledgment.  Thus  was  she  stimulated  to  a 
daily  thoughtfulness  in  regard  to  his  comfort, 
and  a  daily  consultation  of  his  tastes.  Not  so 
with  her  lover.  Mr.  Hardy  rarely  praised.  If 
she  sang  his  favourite  pieces — and  she  did  sing 
with  rare  perfection — he  filled  the  succeeding 
silence  with  no  warmly  admiring  words.  He 
frequently  asked  her  to  play  or  sing,  and  he 
really  enjoyed  her  exquisite  performance  ;  hut  the 
closing  of  the  piece  was  more  frequently  followed 
hy  a  request  for  another,  than  by  any  remark 
upon  that  which  had  been  given.  If  he  expressed 
approval,  it  was  oftener  of  the  composer  than  of 
the  singer — oftener  of  the  piece  than  of  the  charm 
ing  execution. 

Jane  never  sang  without  entering,  with  all  the 
rare  perceptions  of  a  truly  poetic  mind,  into  the 
sentiment  expressed  in  the  song,  and  all  her  heart's 
emotions  were  perceived  in  her  voice.  She  felt 
the  beauty,  pathos,  or  inspiration  of  the  words, 
and  uttered  them  as  if  they  were  impi-ovisations. 
The  lack  of  all  truly  appreciative  response  on  the 
part  of  her  lover,  stimulated  her  to  even  higher 
achievements ;  but  the  result  was  not  changed. 


PRESENTIMENTS.  59 

Her  performances  struck  him  as  most  exquisite, 
and  he  felt  a  glow  of  pride  as  lie  thought  how  far, 
as  his  wife,  she  would  eclipse  the  common  crowd. 
Even  while  she  was  listening  eageirfy  for  some 
spoken  approval,  he  was  mentally  picturing  the 
admiration  she  would  excite,  and  the  exultation 
he  would  feel ! 

In  dress,  Jane  exhibited  a  rare  and  delicate 
taste.  This,  also,  Mr.  Hardy  saw ;  yet,  strangely 
enough,  he  never  indicated,  in  any  way,  his  ap 
preciation  of  the  fact.  But  if  the  slightest  want 
of  harmony  in  colour,  or  the  slightest  apparent 
deviation  from  taste  in  any  portion  of  her  attire 
met  his  glance,  he  was  sure  to  remark  upon  it, 
after  they  had  become  more  intimate ;  nor  was 
this  always  done  in  choicely  selected  words.  His 
pride  in  the  rarely  endowed  maiden  was,  we  fear, 
stronger  than  his  love  for  her.  She  was  to  be  the 
minister  of  his  pleasures,  the  agent  of  his  worldly 
ambition ;  and,  in  dreaming  of  this,  he  forgot 
that  she  had  a  hungering  and  a  thirsting  spirit, 
that  would  droop  and  die  if  the  bread  and  wine  of 
life  were  not  given  to  her  freely. 

No  wonder  that,  as  Jane  Enfield  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  wedding-day,  her  heart 
grew  faint,  and  she  sometimes  wished  that  she  might 
die.  Yet  never  did  woman  love  with  more  intensity 
of  feeling.  Up  to  her  betrothed  she  looked,  as  to 
a  purer  being,  possessed  of  all  man's  superior 


60  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

endowments ;  and  his  failure  *o  give  the  warm 
approval,  for  which  her  spirit  so  longed  and  prayed, 
was  rather  attributed  to  actual  deficiencies  in 
herself — a  failing,  on  her  part,  to  attain  the  high 
standard  of  excellence  which  he  expected  in  the 
woman  who  was  to  be  his  life-companion — than 
to  coldness  or  indifference  to  her  state  of  feeling. 

And  so  the  time  moved  on,  until  the  marriage- 
hour  arrived,  and  the  beautiful,  accomplished, 
and  loving  girl,  completed  the  sweet  cycle  of  her 
maidenhood,  and  entered  the  new  and  higher 
sphere  towards  which  she  had  advanced  wilh 
tt  enabling  hope  and  fear. 


CHAPTER  V. 

|  irsi  Cmiitst. 


"  One  thing,  sirs,  full  safely  dare  I  say, 
That  loving  friends  each  other  must  obey, 
If  they  would  long  remain  in  company. 
Love  will  not  be  constraiu'd  by  mastery: 
When  mastery  cometh,  the  God  of  love  anon 
Beateth  his  wings,  and  farewell  I  he  is  gone  !" 

CUADCA 

IT  was  the  desire  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enficld  (hat 
their  daughter  should  remain  with  them,  at  least 
•for  a  time,  and  that  her  husband  should  make 
their  house  his  home.  This  was  the  desire  also  of 
the  young  wife;  expressed,  as  well  before  as  after 
the  marriage.  But  Mr.  Hardy  had  made  up  his 
mind,  from  the  very  first,  that  he  would  have  a 
home  of  his  own,  that  he  might  be  master  there; 
and  he  had  never  wavered  from  this  purpose  for  a 
single  moment.  All  the  warmly  expressed  wishes 
of  his  bride  and  her  parents  did  not  weigh  with 
him  a  feather  in  the  opposing  scale.  It  was  one 
of  liis  theories,  that,  in  marriage,  man  was  the 
head,  and  must  rule  ;  —  that  his  judgment  was  to 
deteiMiinc  what  was  best;  and  that  what  was  his 
will,  ought  to  be  a  wife's  pleasure.  Accordingly, 


62  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

at  the  very  beginning  of  his  wedded  relation,  he 
sought  to  make  the  gentle,  loving  one  who  had 
given  her  happiness  into  his  keeping,  comprehend 
this  as  his  view  of  the  matter ; — not  in  clear,  out 
spoken  words,  indeed,  but  in  such  hints  as  he 
deemed  clear  enough,  yet  not  so  broad  as  to  give 
offence. 

But  the  idea  of  rule  on  one  part,  and  submis 
sion  on  the  other,  had  never  been  even  remotely 
conceived  of  by  the  young  bride ;  and  the  intima 
tions  given  by  her  husband  were  not  comprehended. 
All  her  life  long  she  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
of  mutual  love,  forbearance,  concession,  and  the 
denial  of  self  for  the  pleasure  of  others.  The 
utterance  of  a  wish  by  any  member  of  the  family, 
was  the  signal  for  all  to  do  some  part  in  the  grati 
fication  of  that  desire.  Love,  not  self-will,  or 
nicely  discriminated  precedence,  was  the  ruling 
power  in  Mr.  Enfield's  household;  and  if  any 
wore  the  chain  of  obedience,  the  flower- links 
were  so  light,  that  they  were  not  in  the  slightest 
degree  felt  to  be  a  burden. 

It  was  a  new  experience  in  Jane's  life,  to  find 
her  wishes  altogether  disregarded  J  and,  under 
the  circumstances,  a  very  painful  one.  She  had 
felt  certain  that  an  expressed  desire  on  her  part 
to  remain  with  her  parents,  at  least  for  a  short 
period  after  their  marriage,  would  have  received 
a  cordially  approving  response  from  her  husband  ; 


THE    FIRST   CONTEST.  63 

and  when  he  met  her  proposal  with  the  smiling 
remark — "  Young  married  people  should  always 
begin  life  in  their  own  home,"  she  did  not  ima 
gine  that  behind  the  words  lay  a  resolute  purpose 
to  make  the  sentiment  a  practical  one  in  their 
case.  At  no  time  previous  to  their  marriage  had 
she  urged  the  matter,  for  she  believed  that  her 
lover  would  esteem  it  a  pleasure  to  meet  her 
wishes.  Whenever  an  allusion  was  made  to  the 
subject,  either  by  Jane  or  her  parents,  the  young 
man  did  not  fail  to  reply  in  the  words  just  given, 
or  in  others  of  similar  import ;  but  he  spoke  so 
mildly  and  pleasantly,  that  Jane,  at  least,  had  no 
suspicion  of  the  fact,  that  his  mind  was  made  up 
to  remove  her  from  the  home  of  her  parents  as 
soon  after  their  marriage  as  might  be  practicable. 

"  There  is  a  house  in  Garden  Street,  which  I 
think  will  suit  us  exactly,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  just 
one  week  after  their  wedding-day.  They  were 
sitting  alone  in  the  dimness  of  the  falling  twilight, 
the  young  wife's  head  resting  lovingly  upon  the 
bosom  of  her  husband,  and  her  heart  full  to  over 
flowing  of  new  and  glad  emotions. 

Jane  did  not  reply ;  but  her  husband  was  con 
scious,  though  not  from  any  sign  perceptible  by 
the  senses,  that  the  remark  gave  her  110  pleasure. 

"  The  situation  is  a  very  desirable  one;  the  house 
new  and  handsome.  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to 
look  at  it  to-morrow." 


64  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

Jane  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  she  would 
go,  but  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  and 
so,  almost  from  necessity,  remained  silent.  This 
silence  annoyed  Mr.  Hardy,  who  in  part  attributed 
it  to  the  right  cause. 

"Will  you  go  with  me?"  he  asked,  in  a  tone 
which,  to  Jane's  ears,  was  so  new,  that  it  startled 
— almost  frightened  her. 

She  rose  up  quickly  from  her  reclining  posture, 
and  said — 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Hardy,  I  will  go  with  you  !" 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  answered  a  little  coldly 
"  Silence  is  not  always  to  be  taken  for  consent." 

Jane  felt  an  icy  chill  go  shuddering  through  her 
whole  being. 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  after  both  had 
remained  for  nearly  a  minute  without  again 
speaking,  "  that  I  have  intimated  my  wish,  from 
the  beginning,  to  h^ve  a  house  of  my  own ;  and 
not  for  an  instant  have  I  ever  designed  any 
thing  else."  He  spoke  with  unusual  gravity  of 
tone  and  manner,  and  with  something  of  an  im 
perative  air.  "  When  a  man  takes  a  wife,  he 
expects  to  have  a  home  of  his  own,  and  household 
goods  of  his  own.  If  he  be  a  true  man,  he  will 
be  satisfied  with  nothing  less.  I  certainly  cannot, 
and  will  not  be." 

For  some  moments  it  seemed  to  the  yoang  wife 
as  if  her  h^art  ceased  to  beat,  and  her  lungs  to 


THE   FIRST    CONTEST.  65 

respire.  Then,  in  spite  of  her  strong  effort  at 
self-control,  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  sobs 
convulsed  her  frame. 

Now,  for  such  an  exhibition  of  feeling  Mr. 
Hardy  could  see  no  real  cause,  and  he  very  coolly 
set  it  down  to  the  account  of  design  on  Jane's 
part,  as  if  she  were  striving  to  work  upon  his 
sensibilities,  and  thus  to  extort  from  him  an  acqui 
escence  in  her  views.  This'  only  made  him  the 
more  determined  to  execute  his  purpose.  So  he 
uttered  not  one  gentle  or  soothing  word,  but  sat 
perfectly  silent  until  the  grieving  creature  at  his 
side  had,  by  many  efforts,  repressed  the  upheaving 
emotions  of  a  stricken  heart. 

Neither  referred  again  to  the  subject.  When 
the  family  met  at  the  tea-  table,  half  an  hour  after 
wards,  the  quick  eyes  of  Mr.  Enfield  read  trouble 
in  the  face  of  his  daughter,  for  it  was  pic 
turing  its  image  there,  even  through  a  veil  of 
smiles. 

"  I  have  found  a  house  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Hardy, 
soon  after  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  "  which 
I  think  will  just  suit  us."  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Enfield  turned  their  eyes  upon  him  with  looks  ot 
surprise.  "  It  is  in  Garden  Street ;  one  of  the 
pleasantcst  situations  in  the  city.  Jane  and  I  are 
going  together  to  look  at  it  in  the  morning." 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  replied  Mr 
Enfield. 
0 


DO  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

"  Not  for  ai>  instant,"  said  the  mother.  "  We 
are  not  going  to  let  you  altogether  deprive  us  of 
our  daughter.  She  cannot  leave  her  old  home  yet, 
Mr.  Hardy.  It  is  large  enough  for  you  and  her; 
so  don't  talk  of  houses  or  housekeeping.  When 
we  consented  that  you  should  marry  our  child,  we 
did  not  relinquish  all  claims  upon  her." 

The  young  man,  quite  self-possessed,  as  he  could 
always  be  when  there  was  sufficient  reason  to  wai- 
rant  an  effort,  blandly  replied,  "  I  have  never 
thought  of  anything  else.  It  is  one  of  my  favourite 
theories,  you  know,  that  every  young  married 
couple  should  at  once  set  up  a  home-establishment 
for  themselves.  To  me,  life's  highest  ideal  is  a 
home" 

"  We  only  ask  you  to  defer  the  change  for  a 
few  short  months,"  said  Mrs.  Enfield,  almost  in  a 
pleading  voice.  "  It  will  be  easier  for  us  to  part 
with  our  daughter  then,  than  it  is  now." 

"  We  shall  not  be  far  from  you,"  answered  the 
young  man,  still  with  a  pleasant  smile  and  tone. 
"  Jane  can  see  you  every  day." 

Thus,  smilingly,  yet  in  real  earnest,  the  con 
troversy  went  on  betAveen  the  parents  and  the 
husband ;  but  the  young  wife  said  not  a  word, — 
a  circumstance  that  did  not  escape  the  observation 
of  Mr.  Enfield. 

"  Suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  we  leave  the  ques 
tion  to  be  decided  by  Jane." 


THE    FIRST   CONTEST.  67 

1  She  is  a  party  interested,"  was  quickly 
answered  by  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  So  are  we  all,"  said  Mr.  Enfield. 

A  slight  flush  came  into  the  daughter's  face, 
when  this  reference  was  made  to  her ;  but  she  did 
not  respond. 

"  You  know  very  well,"  remarked  Mr.  Hardy, 
in  a  laughing  way,  "how  she  will  decide.  But 
our  full-fledged  bird  must  leave  the  mother-nest, 
and  build  one  for  herself.  Her  wings  are  strong 
enough  to  bear  her  up  into  the  pure  air  of  heaven, 
and  she  will  be  all  the  happier  for  the  effort." 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enfield,  perceiving  that  Mr 
Hardy  was  altogether  in  earnest,  and  that  their 
daughter  was  ill  at  ease  while  the  conversation 
went  on,  deemed  it  wisest  to  say  no  more.  A 
slight  feeling  of  embarrassment  was  experienced 
for  a  time  by  all  parties.  But  Mr.  Enfield  broke 
through  this  by  the  introduction  of  a  pleasant 
theme ;  and  no  farther  reference  was  made  to  the 
subject. 

From  that  time,  Jane  was  conscious  of  a  strange 
feeling  of  pressure  and  constriction  over  her  heart. 
The  unyielding  spirit  of  her  husband  deeply  dis 
appointed  her.  Through  many  hours  of  the  night 
that  followed,  while  he  was  in  a  sound  slumber, 
she  lay  weeping  the  bitterest  tears  that  ^had  ever 
wet  her  eyelids. 

There  are  many  who  will  not  sympatliize  very 


68  THE    WITHERED    HEART 

deeply  with  the  young  wife  in  her  wretchedness, — 
who  will  deem  her  unreasonable,  or  weak,  or 
even  selfish.  But  she  did  not  mean  to  be  either. 
Love  was  her  very  life ;  and  she  had  loved  Mr. 
Hardy  because  she  believed  him  pure,  good,  and 
unselfish ;  one  who  loved  her  with  a  devotion 
equal  to  her  own ; — one,  who  would  be  to  her 
clinging  woman's  nature,  as  the  manly  oak  to  the 
upreaching  vine ; — one,  who  would  love  and  cherish 
her  with  even  more  than  the  tenderness  with 
which  the  best  of  fathers  had  loved  and  cherished 
her  from  childhood  upwards.  She  had  never 
intended  to  set  up  her  will  against  his  ;  and  as 
little  had  she  dreamed  that  her  husband  would 
assume  the  love-extinguishing  position,  that  his 
will  was  to  rule  in  all  things.  Had  her  parents 
not  seemed  so  earnestly  desirous  that  she  should 
remain  with  them  for  a  time,  she  would  have 
yielded  to  her  husband's  wishes  the  moment  she 
saw  that  he  really  preferred  the  new  arrangement 
proposed.  Indeed,  she  had  never  regarded  him  as 
really  in  earnest  about  the  matter,  until  he  now 
mentioned  a  particular  house,  as  one  that  he 
thought  would  suit  them.  His  doing  this,  in  so 
cool  and  determined  a  way.  after  he  had  clearly 
understood  the  feelings  both  of  herself  and  of  her 
parents,  was  vAr.it  threw  the  shadow  over  her 
heart.  She  saw  in  the  act  a  moral  characteristic 
not  plainly  apparent  before — a  savouring  of  self- 


THE    FIRST   CONTEST.  69 

love  and .  self-will.  It  was  soon — yes,  too  soon 
alter  their  closer  union  by  the  marriage  ritf — to 
discover,  that  he  loved  and  regarded  her  only  less 
than  himself;  and  that  he  was  ready  to  defer  to 
her  wishes  only  when  these  did  not  run  counter  to 
his  own.  Too  rudely  was  the  veil  torn  from  her 
eyes,  and  her  vision  opened  to  realities,  the  know 
ledge  of  which  almost  palsied  her  heart. 

The  next  morning,  no  reference  w'as  made  at 
the  breakfast-table  to  the  subject  discussed  en 
the  previous  evening;  but  yet  it  was  in  the 
thoughts  of  all.  In  Jane's  heart  had  sprung  up 
the  hope  that  her  husband,  after  reflection,  would 
have  concluded  to  yield  his  wishes  to  theirs 
And  v/ith  this  hope,  there  had  also  qui^k^n*3'!  in 
her  mind  the  spontaneous  purpose  to  refer  all  to 
him,  to  advocate  the  establishment  of  a  ne\* 
fiome,  because  his  heart  was  dwelling  fondly  upon 
hat  iJeal.  As  this  aspect  of  the  case  assumed  a 
more  distinct  form,  and  was  at  length  regarded  by 
her  as  a  verity,  the  light  which  had  grown  so  dim 
blazed  forth  again,  and  her  spirit  felt  an  upward, 
bounding  impulse.  Her  cheeks  glowed  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  as  of  old.  Already  were  her  lips 
preparing  to  utter  the  proposal  that  she  should  go 
with  her  husband  and  look  at  the  house  in  Garden 
Street,  while  pleasant  images  of  the  home  she 
would  beautify  and  make  delightful  for  the  beloved 

of  her  heart  were  beginning  to  fill  her  mind,  when 
o2 


70  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

he  said  to  her,  in  a  quiet,  cool,  almost  imperative 
tone  of  voice — 

"  Come,  Jane,  get  ready  as  quickly  as  you  can. 
You  know  we  are  to  look  at  that  house  this 
morning." 

It  seemed  as  if  the  light  of  the  sun  had  suddenly 
been  removed,  leaving  her  in  thick  darkness ; — as 
if  the  warm  air  around  her  had  become  icy  cold. 
The  colour  left  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  the 
brightness  of  her  beautiful  eyes  greAV  dim.  All 
this  Mr.  Hardy  saw  and  understood — or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  thought  he  understood.  He  was 
dilpleased,  and,  to  some  degree  irritated,  by  this 
"  wilfulness,"  as  he  mentally  termed  it,  on  the 
part  of  his  wife. 

"  One  of  us  must  rule," — such  were  his  rapid 
thoughts — "  and  fhe  sooner  it  is  determined  which 
is  to  be  master,  the  better."  Then  speaking 
aloud,  he  said,  very  slowly,  very  emphatically,  and 
very  resolutely,  "  Jane,  it  will  be  better  for  you 
to  understand  at  the  outset,  that  I  am  a  man  not 
given  to  vacillation.  It  will  save  both  you  and 
me  a  great  amount  of  trouble.  I  am,  moreover, 
always  in  earnest  in  anything  that  I  propose,  and 
I  usually  grow  more  earnest  and  resolute  under 
opposition.  Now  it  is  plain  that  touching  this 
matter  of  housekeeping,  you  have  either  not 
supposed  me  in  earnest,  or  you  have  believed 
that  a  well-sustained  opposition  would  lead  me 


THE    FIRST    CONTEST.  71 

to  alter  my  purpose.  In  this  you  have  been 
altogether  mistaken.  I  have  been  in  earnest 
from  the  beginning;  and  to  speak  my  mind 
plainly,  I  did  think,  Jane,  that  your  love  had  in 
it  enough  of  the  unselfish  element  to  lead  you  to 
give  up  something  of  your  own  preferences,  in 
order  to  meet  your  husband's  wishes.  It  seems, 
however,  that  none  of  us  are  perfect.  Our  ideal 
angels  prove  at  last  but  women,  the  children  of 
unhappy  Eve !" 

Poor  Jane  grew  white  as  death,  and  caught 
her  breath  convulsively,  like  one  suddenly  deprived 
of  vital  air.  She  was  standing  when  her  husband 
began  to  speak,  but  strength  forsook  her  limbs, 
and  she  sank,  almost  powerless,  into  a  chair. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  not  in  the  least  softened  towards 
her ;  for  his  interpretation  of  the  effect  produced 
by  what  he  had  said,  was  as  wide  from  the  truth 
in  regard  to  her  state  of  mind,  as  pole  is  from 
pole. — "  It  is  useless,  Jane,"  he  continued,  "  to 
set  your  will  against  mine.  We  had  better  under 
stand  each  other  completely  at  the  first ;  and  then 
all  after  misunderstanding  and  consequent  un- 
happiness  will  be  prevented.  As  the  husband, 
my  judgment  of  things,  and  my  decisions,  must, 
to  a  certain  extent,  prevail.  There  cannot  be  two 
heads  in  any  government — national,  municipal, 
ur  domestic.  This  is  self-evident.  One  has  to 
rule,  in  all  cases,  or  else  disorder,  discord,  and 


72^  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

anarchy,  must  be  in  the  ascendant.  As  God  is 
the  head  of  the  church,  so  is  man  the  head  of  his 
family.  Thus  it  has  been  Divinely  ordained ;  and 
any  deviation  from  this  order  is  fraught  with 
most  disastrous  consequences.  In  taking  upon 
yourself  the  vows  of  a  wife,  you  have  consented 
to  all  this  as  a  Christian  woman ;  and  I  am  sure 
a  moment's  reflection  will  give  clearness  to  your 
mind,  and  a  willing,  cheerful,  submissive  spirit  to 
your  heart.  If  not,  then  have  I  greatly  mistaken 
my  wife.  Heretofore,  as  a  daughter,  the  will  of 
your  parents  has  been,  more  or  less,  the  law  of 
your  life.  But  that  law  is  abrogated.  Your 
desire  must  be  now  unto  your  husband.  His 
wishes,  not  theirs,  must  now  be  governing  motives 
I  regret  that  you  did  not  see  this  for  yourself. 
The  task  of  bringing  it  to  your  remembrance  is 
no  pleasant  one." 

"  I  speak  very  plainly,"  resumed  Mr.  Hardy, 
after  a  pause,  and  seeing  that  there  was  no  move 
ment  towards  a  response  on  the  part  of  his  pale, 
statue-like  wife  ; — "  it  is,  as  I  before  said,  best  to 
do  so.  Clear  apprehensions  at  the  beginning 
prevent  a  world  of  subsequent  trouble.  If  all 
men,  at  the  commencement  of  their  married  lives, 
would  speak  out  plainly  as  I  do  now,  there  would 
be  far  less  of  misunderstanding  and  contention, 
lhan  prevail  to  a  sad  extent,  marring  and  deform 
ing  so  many  fair  households.  Now,  I  wish  you 


THE    FIRST   CONTEST.  73 

to  bear  in  mind  particularly,  that,  when  I  express 
a  desire  for  anything,  I  am  in  earnest ;  and  that 
it  will  be  useless  for  you  to  make  any  attempt  to 
circumvent  or  turn  me  from  my  purpose.  Your 
wishes  I  cannot,  of  course,  disregard  ;  and  to  meet 
them  will  ever  be,  I  trust,  one  of  the  purest 
pleasures  of  my  life.  But,  should  these  wishes, 
at  any  time,  lift  themselves  against  my  own 
declared  purposes — purposes  that  I  have  set  myself 
deliberately,  and  from  reason,  to  carry  out,  as  in 
the  present  case — your  efforts  to  turn  me  aside 
from  the  objects  I  seek  to  attain,  will  be  like 
beating  the  air ;  or  worse,  beating  a  statue  that 
will  only  bruise  the  tender  hands  which  strike  its 
marble  surface." 

Still  the  young  wife  sat  before  him,  with  her 
long  lashes  laid  closely  down  upon  her  pallid 
cheeks,  her  hueless  lips  slightly  parted,  and  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  bosom.  Other  eyes  would 
have  seen  in  that  form  an  image  of  despair ;  but 
it  did  not  appear  so  to  the  husband,  whose  eyes 
looked  through  a  blinding  veil. 

"  We  understand  each  other  at  last,  Jane,"  he 
said,  in  a  slightly  softening  tone;  "and  now,  like 
a  dear  good  .wife,  get  yourself  ready,  and  let  us 
go  and  look  at  our  new  home." 

But  she  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"  Jane !" 

There  was  no  response. 


74  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

"  Jane  !"     He  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  and,  as 
he  did  so,  a  thrill  passed  through  his  frame,  for  > 
that  hand  was  icy  as  the  hand  of  death. 

"  Jane !" 

He  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  dead ;  for, 
ere  the  sound  of  his  voice  had  died  upon  the  air, 
she  fell  forward,  and  his  arms  only  saved  her  from 
striking  the  floor  with  a  heavy  concussion. 

Love  was  the  life  of  her  soul,  and  he  had  well 
nigh  trampled  it  out,  with  the  crushing  strokes  of 
his  iron  heel ' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

3  flbit  10  barton  Start. 

14 1  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  i»assion  and  the  life  whose  fountains  are  within." 

COLEBIDOK. 

MR.  HARDY  lifted  in  his  arms  the  insensible  body 
of  bis  wife,  and  laid  it  upon  the  bed.  He  waa 
startled,  pained,  and  alarmed,  as  well  he  might 
be ;  but  not  to  the  extent  most  readers  would 
imagine.  Of  a  very  equable  temperament,  he 
was  never  greatly  moved  by  any  sudden  occur 
rences,  no  matter  what  their  character  ;  and  rarely 
was  the  equilibrium  of  his  mind  disturbed. 

In  the  present  case,  instead  of  calling  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Enfield,  he  began  chafing  the  bands  and 
arms  of  bis  insensible  wife,  sprinkling  her  face 
with  water,  and  using  such  other  restorative 
means  as  occurred  to  him.  Nearly  ten  minutes 
were  spent  in  these  efforts,  before  the  ^smallest 
sign  of  life  appeared ;  and  then  the  returning 
.  pulse  beat  very  feebly  under  the  pressure  of  his 
searching  ri  liters. 


76  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

The  father  and  mother  were  now  summoned. 
To  them  the  condition  of  their  child  was  appalling. 
Never  since  her  earliest  childhood  had  they  seen 
her  in  such  a  state ;  for  never,  even  in  severe 
illness  and  its  consequent  debility,  had  the  life- 
forces  of  her  being  been  for  a  inciment  suspended. 
Their  eager  inquiries  elicited  no  satisfactory  reply 
from  Mr.  Hardy.  The  utmost  they  could,  learn 
from  him  was,  that  while  they  were  conversing, 
he  noticed  an  unusual  pallor  in  her  face,  and  that 
soon  after,  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  fell  forward 
into  his  arms.  It  was,  doubtless,  a  "  mere  faint 
ing  fit,"  he  said;  and  he  urged  the  parents  not 
to  feel  needless  alarm. 

There  was  far  less  of  comfort,  far  less  of  hope, 
in  his  almost  calmly  spoken  words,  than  the 
young  man  supposed.  That  he  should  appear  so 
little  disturbed  under  the  cii'cumstances,  surprised 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Knfield,  and  awakened  vague  sus 
picions  in  their  minds. 

"Oh!  run  for  the  doctor!  quickly!  quickly!" 
exclaimed  the  mother,  as  soon  as  the  first  bewil 
derment  passed  away,,  and  she  could  think  at  all. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  said  Mr.  Hardy.  "It 
will  scarcely  be  necessary  to  call  in  the  doctor, 
for  she  is  gradually  recovering.  It  is  only  a  faint 
ing  fit.  See,  her  eyelids  are  quivering,  and  there 
is  a  motion  in  her  lips  and  hands.  It  will  be 
over  ill  a  few  moments.  Do  not  be  alarmed  " 


A   VISIT   TO    GARDEN-  STREET.  77 

As  ne  spoke,  a  low,  sad  murmur  breathed 
through  her  lips ;  it  had  the  vagueness  of  a 
dreamy  sound. 

"  Jane  !  Jane !  Dear  child ! "  The  lips  of  the 
mother  almost  touched  the  ear  of  her  daughter; 
and  her  tones  were  eager,  and  trembling  with 
love  and  pity.  Only  the  sad  moaning  sound  was 
repeated ;  but  it  was  less  vague,  and  more  fraught 
with  a  living  anguish. 

"Jane,  dear!  .My  daughter!  Speak,  if  you  hear 
me."  It  was  the  father  who  now  addressed  her. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  seemed  to  penetrate  the 
shut  door  of  her  spirit.  Her  eyes  slowly  opened ; 
for  a  moment  or  two  she  looked  from  face  to  face 
of  the  anxious  group  bending  over  her,  and.  then 
tin-owing  her  arms  around  her  father's  neck, 
sobbed  out — 

"  Father  !  father  !     Oh,  father ! " 

"  My  dear,  precious  child  !  what  ails  you?" 

"  Jane  !  Dear  love  ! "  The  mother  bent  close 
to  her,  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"  You  are  better  now,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  damp  forehead,  and  smoothing 
back  the  hair  which  had  fallen  over  its  polished 
surface.  He  spoke  in  an  even  voice.  Mr.  Enfield 
was  struck  with  the  apparent  want  of  emotion  in 
the  young  husband,  under  circumstances  so  deeply 
distressing  to  himself.  Jane  did  not  seem  to 

notice  his  presence. 
H 


78  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

Gradually  life  and  consciousness  were  restored; 
but  not  to  the  full  extent.  To  the  many  ques 
tions  of  her  paients,  touching  the  cause  of  her 
sudden  illness,  Jane  gave  no  reply.  After  the 
first  startled  recognitions  of  those  who  were  stand 
ing  around,  her  mind  seemed  to  relapse  into  'a 
torpid,  semi-conscious  state.  Her  countenance 
remained  very  pale ;  and  its  whole  expression  was 
that  of  intense  mental  suffering. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eufield  were  distressed  beyond 
measure;  and  it  is  but  justice  to  say  of  Mr. 
Hardy,  that  he  was  deeply  troubled.  His  state 
of  feeling,  and  his  thoughts  on  the  subject,  were, 
however,  widely  different  from  theirs.  He  viewed 
the  case  before  him  from  a  stand-point  of  his  own  ; 
and,  painful  as  the  trial  was,  he  resolved  not  to 
recede  a  single  step  from  the  position  he  had 
assumed.  It  was,  as  he  conceived,  only  a  simple 
struggle  for  the  mastery ;  and  he  even  went  so 
far  in  his  conclusions  as  to  assume,  that  baffled 
self-will  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  his  wife's 
present  condition,  as  any  other  feeling!  In  this 
he  was  sincere.  But  he  was  not  the  man  to  yield 
in  any  struggle  for  right  or  predominance.  Let 
the  contest  be  long  or  short,  he  was  determined 
to  maintain  his  ground  to  the  end. 

"  I  did  not  expect  this,"  lie  said  to  himself,  as 
he  left  the  house  on  seeing  Jane  well  nigh  re 
covered  from  her  fainting  fit,  and  to'*k  his  way  to 


A    TISIT   TO    GARDEN    STREET.  79 

his  office.  "  I  did  not  expect  this  of  her, — one 
who,  in  all  her  maidenly  intercourse,  has  been 
so  gentle,  so  loving,  so  ready  to  concede,  so  yield 
ing  in  all  that  concerned  herself.  Ah !  woman ! 
woman !  thou  art  indeed  a  riddle  most  difficult 
of  solution !  How  soon  have  the  roses,  dropped 
from  thy  gentle  hands,  become  thorns  in  my 
path  !" 

When  Mr.  Hardy  returned  at  dinner-time,  he 
found  his  wife  entirely  recovered.  She  was  alone 
in  her  room,  and  received  him  with  a  flitting 
smile  on  her  still  pale  face.  He  kissed  her  as  he 
sat  down  by  her  side;  and  taking  her  hand  in 
his,  inquired  tenderly  as  to  her  health. 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  well  now,"  she  replied,  en 
deavouring  to  speak  cheerfully,  and  to  wear  a 
pleasant  smile.  The  smile  and  tone,  however, 
were  but  a  mockery.  Mr.  Hardy  tried  to  con 
verse  with  her  on  subjects  in  which,  heretofore, 
both  of  them  had  been  interested,  but  he  failed 
to  awaken  any  warm  response.  This  did  not 
soften  his  feelings;  for  he  called  that  woman's 
perverseness,  which  was  simply  a  resultant  con 
dition  of  mind,  and  impossible  for  her  to  cast  off. 
He  even  permitted  himself  to  charge  her  in  his 
thoughts,  with  acting  a  part  in  order  to  gain  him 
over  to  her  will.  This  idea  hardened  him  towards 
her,  and  widened  the  breach  between  them. 

In  the  evening  the  state  of  things   was  but 


80  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

slightly  improved.  Jane  did  not  come  down  to  tb/1 
tea-table,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enfield  were  too  niucl 
depressed  in  spirits  to  enter  into  anything  nion 
than  a  mere  monosyllabic  conversation  with  Mr  ' 
Hardy,  who,  whatever  was  the  true  state  of  his 
feelings,  maintained  a  bland,  affable  deportment. 

To  some  extent,  during  the  evening,  the  young 
wife  was  able,  by  a  strongly  self- compelling 
effort,  to  assume  a  more  cheerful  aspect  towards 
her  husband,  which  he  regarded  as  a  favourable 
omen.  How  little  of  what  was  in  her  heart  could 
he  understand !  Did  it  suggest  the  thought  that 
he  might  make  some  concession  ?  No !  There 
was  rather  a  feeling  of  exultation  at  the  signs  of 
victory;  and  there  was  the  stirring  of  a  meaner 
purpose  to  make  the  submission  still  more  com 
plete  than  at  first  designed. 

Longer  than  the  next  morning  he  could  not 
wait,  before  again  proposing  to  go  and  look  at  the 
house  in  Garden^Street.  He  saw  the  paling  of 
his  wife's  face,  the  quiver  of  her  lip,  the  sudden 
catching  of  her  breath,  that  followed  his  words : 
but  these  did  not  shake  him  in  hi-s  purpose,  nor 
cause  him  to  hesitate.  They  only  made  him  the 
more  resolute  to  move  onward.  He  had  hoped, 
that,  after  passing  through  the  convulsive  struggles 
of  the  previous  day,  conscious  weakness  would 
induce  her  to  yield.  That  she  manifested  sur 
prise  and  pain  at  the  renewal  of  his  proposition, 


A   VISIT   TO    GARDEN    STREET.  81 

satisfied  him  that  there  had  heen  a  mutual  error 
both  having  regarded  the  victory  as  won. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  this  morning,  Jane?" 
lie  said  firmly. 

"  If  you  desire  it,"  was  faintly  answered. 

"  Certainly,  I  desire  it."  Mr.  Hardy  spoke 
firmly,  and  in  a  rebuking  tone. 

"I  shall  be  ready  in  a  few  moments."  And 
Jane  turned  to  the  wardrobe  to  get  her  shawl. 
He  did  not  notice  that  she  staggered  in  her  gait, 
as  she  crossed  the  room. 

"  You  will  find  me  in  the  library,"  said  he, 
leaving  the  room.  The  instant  he  closed  the 
door,  his  wife  stood  still,  and  clasping  her  hands 
across  her  bosom,  lifted  her  eyes  upwards,  saying 
with  an  even,  repressed  voice — 

"  O  Lord,  give  me  strength  and  endurance 
Make  me  a  true,  good  wife.  Teach  me  the  way  of 
duty.  Guide  my  wandering  feet.  ()  Lord,  help 
me  !  for  I  arn  weaker  than  the  bruised  reed." 

Then,  with  a  firmer  step,  she  moved  about  the 
room,  and  with  quicker  movements  made  pr^para- 
tioii  to  go  with  her  husband. 

"  I  saw  the  owner  of  the  house  yesterday," 
said  Mr.  Hardy,  as  they  left  the  street-door,  "  and 
he  says  that  several  persons  are  desirous  to  rent 
it,  and  that  we  shall  have  to  decide  the  matter 
to-day.  I  told  him  I  thought  there  was  no  doubt 
of  your  taking  the  house." 
11  2 


82  THE   WITHERED    HEA.RT. 

Ho  waited  for  a  response,  but  none  was  madi, 
The  remark  was  intended  to  impress  his  wife  with 
the  fact,  that  he  was  still  entirely  in  earnest ;  and 
such  was  the  effect,  for  she  remembered  that  it 
was  while  she  had  been  lying  sick  in  bed,  that  he 
was  coldly  prosecuting  the  object  which  he  sought 
to  obtain,  even  at  the  expense  of  trampling  on  her 
already  crushed  feelings.  A  low  shudder  went 
quivering  along  every  nerve  at  this  new  proof  of 
his  utter  disregard  of  her  wishes. 

"  Lord,  help  me ! "  From  away  down  in  her 
suffering  spirit  arose  this  almost  despairing  cry. 
Very  weak  she  felt ;  her  own  strength  was  almost 
gone.  She  must  fall  by  the  way,  unless  Heaven 
sent  the  power  to  bear  up  and  move  on. 

Her  silence,  as  little  understood  as  any  state  of 
mind  had  been  during  this  brief  but  unhappy 
contest,  was  set  down  to  an  unsubdued  spirit,  that 
yet  hoped  to  compass  its  own  will. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  he  said,  "  my  pretty  one  !" 
speaking  to  himself,  in  a  light  vein.  "  These 
weapons  of  warfare  strike  against  polished  armour. 
I  can  be  as  insensible  as  iron  when  I  choose.  And 
so  the  quicker  you  get  over  all  these  airs,  the 
better  it  will  be  for  yourself." 

The  house  in  Garden  Street  was  a  handsome 
edifice ;  much  handsomer  than  that  in  which  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Eiifield  were  living.  The  neighbour 
hood  was  pleasant  and  desirable.  Indeed,  in.  most 


A  VISIT   TO    GARDEN    STREET.  83 

respects  the  choice  was  good.  All  this  Jane  sa\v 
at  a  glance ;  and  yet,  as  she  entered  the  spacious 
doorway,  and  passed  into  the  elegantly-finished 
parlours,  she  felt  that  here  was  the  burial-place 
of  all  her  happiness.  A  dead  coldness,  like  the 
atmosphere  of  a  tomb,  struck  chillingly  on  her 
spirit. 

To  the  All-seeing  One  only  was  it  known  how, 
with  the  utmost  strength  of  her  soul,  she  struggled 
to  assume  a  cheerful  and  interested  manner,  and 
to  meet  with  a  wife-like  acceptance  the  earnestly- 
spoken  fcommendations  lavished  by  her  husband 
upon  the  new  home  into  which  he  purposed  re 
moving  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  these  parlours  beautiful  ? " 
he  asked  with  animation. 

"  Very,"  was  replied.  Jane  wished  to  say 
more ;  but  she  was  no  actress.  She  could  not  veil 
her  feelings  with  her  voice ;  and  she  feared  that 
the  attempted  utterance  of  words  would  only 
betray  her  state  of  mind  too  fully. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  disappointed  at  the  brief  re 
sponse,  as  well  as  chafed  by  the  still  unbroken, 
persevering  wilfulncss  of  his  wife. 

They  passed  into  the  large  garden  filled  with 
choicest  shrubbery,  and  adorned  with  a  tasteful 
summer-house. 

"Is  not  this  charming !  I  have  seen  nothing 
tike  it  iu  the  whole  city,"  said  Mr.  Hardy. 


84  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  replied  Mrs.  Hard/  in 
an  absent  way.  In  truth,  her  eyes  had  scarcely 
taken  in  the  form  of  these  external  things ;  for, 
just  at  the  moment,  arose  before  the  eyes  of  her 
spirit  that  dreadful,  never-to-be-obliterated  scene 
of  the  previous  morning ;  and  she  seemed  again  to 
be  looking  appalled  into  the  changed  and  terrible 
face  of  her  husband,  which,  like  that  of  another 
Medusa,  was  changing  her  into  stone. 

Mr.  Hardy  bit  his  lips  to  repress  an  impatient, 
rebuking  word.  With  an  unusual  effort  he  kept 
silent. 

From  the  garden  they  went  into  the  upper 
rooms,  both  speechless  —  both  embarrassed;  and 
one  in  a  state  bordering  upon  angry  excite 
ment.  Two  handsome  apartments,  opening  into 
each  other  by  folding-doors,  and  finished  with 
everything  convenient  and  appropriate,  were  on 
the  second  floor,  and,  as  they  stepped  into  them, 
Mr.  Hardy  said — 

"  How  do  you  like  these,  Jane?" 

From  the  moment  the  young  wife's  feet  crossed 
the  threshold  of  this  house,  a  chill  fell  upon  her 
spirit,  as  if  the  wings  of  death  had  thrown  their 
cold  shadows  over  her ;  and  every  advancing  step 
she  had  taken,  seemed  like  going  farther  and 
farther  into  the  dusky  chambers  of  an  Egyptian 
tomb. 

She  tried  to  answer  her  husband's  question  — 


A   VISIT    TO    GARDEN    STREET.  O& 

tried  to  frame  approving  words  in  her  mind — 
tried  to  master  her  feelings  so  as  to  sy-ak  v/irh 
apparent  smiling  cheerfulness.  But  all  wio  vam. 
And  so  she  remained  silent  under  tLe  pressure  of 
emotions  it  was  impossible  to  throw  off. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  Jane?"  Mr.  Hardy's 
impatient  feelings  overleaped  his  self -control. 
"  Surely,  all  this  makes  some  impression  upon 
your  mind,  favourable  or  unfavourable !  I  am  at 
least  entitled  to  a  response." 

He  had  turned  upon  her  suddenly,  and  was 
gazing  sternly  into  her  sad  face.  She  met  his 
fiery  eyes  with  a  startled  look. 

"  Can't  you  say  whether  you  like  the  house 
or  not  ? " 

Two  or  three  times  Jane  attempted  13  answer; 
but  her  tongue  clove,  literally,  to  her  mouth. 
Sternly  her  husband  continued  to  gaze  upon  her, 
the  angry  spirit  ill  his  eyes  smiting  her  with 
terrible  anguish. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Jane,  thus  to  set  yourself  up 
against  my  wishes,"  said  he,  speaking  very  firmly, 
yet  under  greater  self-control.  "  I  understand 
more  than  half  of  this  to  be  mere  acting;  and 
the  other  half  the  painful  struggles  of  conscious 
Weakness.  Under  tne  law  of  our  marriage — and 
you  solemnly  vowed  before  Heaven  to  keep  that 
law — it  is  my  prerogative  to  decide  all  questions 
ou  which  difference  exists.  We  have  differed  here, 


86  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

and  my  decision  you  know.  You  wrong  me, 
therefore,  by  this  fruitless  opposition;  and  you 
create  for  your  own  mind  a  world  of  wretched 
ness.  Surely,  a  man  may  be  pardoned  for  de 
siring  a  home  for  himself;  and  that  v.'ife  is  greatly 
to  blame  who  opposes  her  husband  in  this  reason 
able  desire,  particularly  when  she  sees  that  he 
has  set  his  heart  upon  it,  and  cannot  bo  turned 
aside  from  his  purpose  ! " 

"Oh,  John!  John!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hardy, 
bui-sting  into  tears, — "  how  greatly  you  misun 
derstand  me  ! — how  sadly  you  wrong  me  ! "  And 
she  leaned  her  face  upon  his  shoulder,  and  for 
some  moments  wept  bitterly. 

Mr.  Hardy  drew  his  arm  around  her,  and 
pressed  her  to  his  side ;  but  there  was  no  heart- 
thrill  conveyed  by  the  pressure,  for  no  heart  was 
in  the  act.  As  the  outburst  of  feelings  died" away, 
he  said — 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  misunderstand  or  wrong 
you,  Jane.  In  this  respect,  it  is  my  effort  to  be 
blameless  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  towards  all  men. 
Just,  I  have  ever  sought  to  be." 

Jane  could  speak  no  farther.  A  mere  servile 
humiliation  of  herself  at  his  feet  was  impossible, 
and  this  seemed  to  her  the  only  alternative  offered. 
There  were  necessities  in  her  being  that  could  not 
be  wholly  abrogated. 

"Will  you  answer  me  one  question,  clearly 


A   VISIT   TO    GARDEN    STREET.  87 

and  firmly?"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  with  a  resolute  tone 
of  voice,  stepping  a  little  apart,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Certainly."  There  was  a  calmer  utterance  OT 
the  word  than  he  had  expected  to  hear. 

"  Shall  we  take  this  house  ?     Sa  j  yes,  or  no." 

"  Yes,  take  it  by  all  means,"  she  answered, 
speaking  evenly,  but  not  lifting  her  eyes  from  the 
floor. 

"  Very  well.  That  is  settled.  So  far  we  under 
stand  each  other.  I  will  see  the  owner,  and  make 
the  contract  Avith  him  this  morning.  And  now, 
for  the  matter  of  furnishing;  that  must  be  con 
sidered  next.  If  you  have  any  choice  as  to 
Ahe  cabinet-maker  and  upholsterer,  I  shall  be 
giau  to  consult  your  wishes  in  this  respect. 
Indeed,  if  you  and  your  excellent  mother  will 
undertake  the  whole  business  of  furnishing  every 
part  of  the  house,  I  shall  be  gratified.  What 
say  you  ?" 

"If  mother  consents,  as  I  have  no  doubt  she 
will,  I  shall  cheerfully  consent  to  the  arrangement." 

This  was  almost  too  coldly — too  mechanically 
— said,  to  suit  Mr.  Hardy.  There  was  neither 
warmth  nor  will  enough  in  it. 

A  moment  or  two  he  stood,  hesitating  whether 
to  make  any  farther  remark.  He  then  said — 

"  Come  ;  there  is  more  of  the  house  yet  to  be 
seen."  Mrs.  Hardy  moved  away  with  him,  ex 
hibiting  a  degree  of  interest  not  manifested  before 


88  THE   WITHERED  HEART. 

The  fact  was,  her  feelings  had  suddenly  congealed, 
giving  an  exterior  placidity,  and  a  smooth,  glassy 
surface,  which  would  coldly  mirror  back  whatever 
image  was  presented.  The  ice,  indeed,  was  very, 
very  thin.  But  enough,  that  the  waters  were 
frozen,  and  to  such  a  depth  as  would  secure  their 
remaining  for  a  while  undisturbed  by  the  lighter 
airs  which  swept  over  them. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  the  house,"  said  Mr. 
Hardy,  as  on  closing  their  examination  they 
started  homeward.  The  remark  was  made  in  a 
voice  that  indicated  satisfaction,  and  showed  that 
he  was  deceived  as  to  the  real  state  of  his  wife's 
mind.  "  How  soon  shall  we  make  arrangements 
for  selecting  the  furniture  ?" 

"  I  see  no  reason  for  delay  in  the  matter," 
replied  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  Nor  I !  And  now,  Jane,  will  you,  assisted  by 
your  mother,  undertake  this  work,  and  relieve  me 
from  all  care  on  the  subject  ?  We  are  very  busy  at 
the  office,  and  my  time  and  thoughts  are  both  fully 
occupied." 

"  If  you  desire  it,  and  can  trust  to  our  taste  in 
the  selection,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Oh !  I'll  willingly  leave  the  whole  of  that 
matter  to  you  ;  making,  however,  one  exception — 
everything  must  be  handsome,  and  of  the  best 
quality.  It  is  always  cheapest  to  buy  good  furni 
ture,  and  of  the  most  recent  patterns.  It  lasts 


A  YISIT   TO    GARDEN    STREET.  89 

tonger,  and  does  not  so  soon  go  out  of  fashion. 
Don't  you  agree  with  me  in  this  respect  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  thiitk  you  are  right ;  only,  there  must 
be  a  limit  as  to  price.  It  is  possible  that,  in  the 
selection,  we  might  be  tempted  to  exceed  the  sum 
you  can  afford  to  appropriate  for  the  purpose. 
This  is  my  only  fear." 

'*'  You  need  not  be  alarmed  about  that.  I  wish 
to  furnish  handsomely,  and  you  are  at  liberty  to 
consult  your  taste  in  everything.  Let  elegance, 
not  cheapness,  be  your  guide." 

Mr.  Hardy,  who  was  a  man  of  but  feeble 
perceptive  powers,  was  again  deceived  as  to  the 
true  state  of  his  wife's  feelings.  He  was  weak 
enough  to  suppose  that  she  had  yielded  in  the 
contest,  and  was  now  submitting  herself  dutifully, 
and  in  a  returning  spirit  of  cheerfulness,  the  result 
of  right  purposes  in  the  right  direction.  Pleasantly, 
and  almost  volubly,  he  talked  of  the  future,  and 
how  delightful  it  would  be  when  they  could  close 
the  doors  and  windows  of  their  own  home  at 
eventide,  and  shut  out  the  world.  How  far  was 
it  from  his  thoughts,  that  every  word  he  uttered 
struck  the  icy  exterior  of  his  wife's  feelings,  and 
glanced  off  without  making  the  feeblest  impression ! 
How  little  did  he  imagine,  that  her  seemingly 
pleased  responses  were  only  from  the  lips  out 
ward,  and  that,  in  the  deep  places  of  her  soul, 
were  agitation  and  opposition  as  profound  as  the 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

life-sources  of  her  being!  He  did  not  for  ;in 
instant  dream  that  a  permanent  change  had 
passed  over  the  surface  of  her  feelings,  and  that, 
by  gaining  his  purposes  in  the  way  in  which  he 
had  gained  them,  he  had  lost  his  wife!  that  all 
the  sweet,  loving,  gentle,  celestial  graces  of  her 
woman's  nature,  which  had  lured  him  by  their 
heavenly  attractions,  had  faded  from  the  changed 
exterior,  and  retired  for  safety  and  life,  far  up 
into  the  interior  mansions  of  her  spirit,  there  to 
hide  themselves  until  mortal  should  put  on  im 
mortality. 

Ah  !  what  an  error  had  been  committed  !  "What 
a  wrong  done !  The  selfish,  self-willed  young 
husband  did  not  understand  the  instrument  upon 
which  he  sought  to  play ;  and  in  his  bold  self- 
sufficiency,  dashed  his  hand  in  amon?  the  dt-Ucate 
strings,  first  producing  discord,  ftnJ  tier  ^V~e*«u^ 
them  to  piece* 


CHAPTER  VII 

f  le  IJftto  J0me. 

•  No  more  can  faith  or  candour  more, — 
But  such  ingenuous  deeds  of  love 

Which  reason  could  applaud, 
Now,  smiling  o'er  her  dark  distress, 
Fancy  malignant  strives  to  dress 

Like  injury  and  fraud." — AKENSIDE. 

THE  house  was  taken,  the  furniture  purchased, 
and  the  new  home  prepared  for  the  young  bride 
and  her  husband.  Taste,  comfort,  and  elegance 
were  visible  everywhere.  With  an  appearance  of 
interest  that  altogether  deceived  Mr.  Hardy,  and 
to  some  extent  her  parents,  Jane  had  entered 
into  the  business  of  selecting  and  arranging  the 
furniture.  For  the  space  of  three  or  four  weeks, 
nearly  her  whole  time  was  taken  up  in  this  work  ; 
while  the  occupation  of  her  thoughts  in  what  she 
was  doing  in  some  degree  lifted  her  above  the 
darkness  that  brooded  over  her  spirit,  and  gave 
to  her  manner  a  cheerfulness  that  was  but  a 
mockery  of  her  real  state. 


92  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

Then  came  the  formal  change  from  the  old  to 
the  new  home.  To  her,  it  was  like  the  going 
forth  of  the  dove  from  the  ark.  Before  and 
around  her — everywhere  within  the  range  of  her 
keenly  searching  vision — stretched  only  a  dreary 
waste  of  troubled  waters,  above  which  not  even 
the  stony  peak  of  an  Ararat  was  visible.  But  she 
went  from  the  warm,  loving  atmosphere  of  the 
old  home  into  the  new  one,  and  felt  the  chilling 
air  strike  coldly  upon  her  heart,  without  a  visible 
tear  or  a  faltering  footstep.  The  pressure  on  her 
feelings  was  so  great,  that  a  sunny  countenance 
was  impossible.  She  had  intended  to  appear 
cheerful  and  interested ;  to  manifest  not  even  a 
shade  of  reluctance ;  to  hide  the  troubled  aspect 
of  her  spirit  from  every  one.  Alas  !  this  was  im 
possible.  She  had  no  skill  in  dissembling.  She 
knew  that  the  searching  eyes  of  her  husband 
were  upon  her,  watching  every  changing  hue  in 
her  countenance  ;  and  she  felt  that  he  saw  deeper 
than  the  surface. 

It  was  in  the  forenoon  of  a  fair  autumn -day 
that  Mrs.  Hardy,  accompanied  by  her  mother 
and  her  husband,  stepped  into  a  carriage,  by 
which  they  were  conveyed  to  the  elegant  habita 
tion  that  was  to  be  the  bride's  new  home.  "  I 
ought  to  be  a  he  ppy  wife."  These  were  the  mental 
words  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  as  the  carriage  moved  away 
from  her  father's  house.  Yet  even  as  she  said 


THE   NEW   HOME  93 

this,  she  shrunk  hack  in  the  carriage,  and  drew  hoi 
veil  over  her  face,  lest  the  tears  that  it  seemed 
impossible  to  restrain,  should  suddenly  gush  from 
her  eyes.  Mr.  Hardy  noticed  the  movement,  and 
understood  it  as  indicating  a  pained  and  reluctant 
state  of  feeling. 

tj 

Arrived  at  Garden  Street,  Mr.  Hardy  remained 
only  a  short  time.  Business  called  him  elsewhere. 

"  I  leave  my  young  housekeeper  to  take  her 
first  lessons  under  your  instructions,"  he  said  with 
a  smile,  and  in  a  pleasant  tone,  to  Mrs.  Enfield. 
"  She  is  timid,  and  fearful  that  she  will  not  do 
well ;  hut  I  am  ready  to  trust  all  in  her  hands. 
Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  be  very  happy  here  ?" 
And  he  "lanced  around  upon  the  elegant  adorn 
ments  of  the  room  in  which  they  stood. 

"  Happiness  comes  always  from  within,"  replied 
Mrs.  Enfield  in  a  low,  thoughtful  voice.  *'  Yes," 
she  added,  after  an  almost  imperceptible  pause, 
"  you  ought  to  he  very  happy  here  ;  and  may 
Heaven  grant  you  that  great  blessing." 

"  Nothing  shall  be  wanting,  which  it  is  in  my 
power  to  give,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  as  he  looked 
towards  his  young  wife. 

She  was  standing  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor, 
and  neither  looked  up  nor  responded. 

"  Good  morning  !"  Mr.  Hardy  spoke  cheerfully. 
"  Business  first — pleasure  afterwards.  1  must 
away :"  and  he  moved  across  the  room.  "  But 
ft] 


94  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

stay,"  he  added,  pausing  at  the  door.  "  I  must 
book  myself  in  regard  to  the  new  household 
arrangements.  At  what  hour  shall  we  dine  ?" 

"  What  time  will  suit  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  Say  two  o'clock  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well,  let  it  be  two.  You  will  see  me 
at  the  uuor  when  the  clock  strikes." 

At  two  Mr.  Hardy  returned,  and  found  his 
wife  alone,  her  mother  having  gone  back  to  attend 
to  the  duties  of  her  own  hoasehold.  She  met  him 
with  tender  looks  and  loving  words  ;  but  there 
was  a  suffering  expression  on  her  face,  and  there 
•were  signs  of  weeping  about  her  eyes,  which 
•worried  the  young  husband.  "  Why  should  she 
look  sad  ?  Why  should  she  weep  ?"  It  was  "  un 
reasonable  !"  He  instantly  felt  cold  towards  her  ; 
and  she,  conscious  of  this  repulsion,  lost  her  self- 
control  and  burst  into  tears.  She  was  standing 
before  him,  and  looking  into  his  face,  when  thus 
overpowered  by  her  feelings. 

Leaning  her  face  down  upon  his  shoulder,  she 
sobbed  almost  hysterically. 

Mr.  Hardy  did  not  speak  a  soothing  word,  nor 
so  much  as  draw  his  arm  around  her,  but  stood 
silent  and  immovable  as  stone,  until  the  gush  of 
feeling  had  subsided.  He  then  said,  in  110  kind 
Voice — 

"  Jane,  I  rm  confounded  at  this  persevering 


THE   NEW   HOteE.  95 

opposition  on  your  part.  None  but  a  self-willed, 
unreasonable  woman  could  make  any  objection  to 
becoming  the  mistress  of  a  home  like  this." 

"  I  make  no  objection,"  she  answered,  lifting 
her  face,  and  looking  at  him  through  tears  that 
were  not  yet  stayed. 

"Every  act,  every  look,  every  thought  is  an 
objection,"  said  Mr  Hardy,  with  strong  emphasis 
on  his  words. 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,  John." 

"  And  fear  that  I  never  shall,"  was  replied  with 
no  softening  of  voice  or  manner.  "  I  thought  you 
understood,  in  assuming  a  wife's  relations,  what 
were  a  wife's  duties.  But  I  have  spoken  to  you 
plainly  on  the  subject  before,  and  I  need  not 
repeat  my  words  now.  You  know  my  sentiments 
on  this  point." 

"  Forgive  me  in  what  I  have  done  wrong,"  said 
Mrs.  Hardy,  meekly.  "  It  is  in  my  heart  to  be 
all  God  requires  of  me  in  this  my  new  and  holy 
relation.  But  I  am  a  weak,  erring,  blind  creature. 
Have  patience  with  me,  John  !  Do  not  bear  down 
too  hard  upon  me,  lest  you  break  what  you  seek 
to  bend." 

"  Bear  down  upon  you,  Jane  !    I  cannot  under 
stand  such  language!     What  is  your  meaning? 
How   have  I   borne  down   upon   you?     In  what 
have  I  been  selfish,  exacting,  or  unreasonable  ? 
Was  it  strange  that,  in  taking  a  wife,  I  should 


96  THE  WITHERED   HEAKT. 

desire  a  home  ?  No !  But  it  icas  strange  thnt  the 
wife  I  selected  from  the  circle  of  maidens  should, 
for  an  instant,  think  of  holding  me  hack  from  that 
most  coveted  blessing.  Yes,  that  is  the  strange 
feature  in  the  case.  Bear  down  too  hard  upon 
you  !  Is  it  possible  that  I  am  so  soon  transformed 
in  your  eyes  into  a  domestic  tyrant  ?" 

The  words  of  this  sentence  were,  at  first,  as 
painful  blows  on  the  young  wife's  heart ;  but  ere 
it  was  closed  they  rebounded  from  the  hardened 
surface,  leaving  scarcely  an  impression  behind. 
She  had  felt  a  reviving  tenderness  for  him,  as  her 
appeal  indicated ;  and  if  he  had  then  folded  her 
lovingly  in  his  arms ;  if  he  had  then  suffered  right 
thoughts  to  guide  him  to  a  perception  of  her  true 
state ;  if  he  had  then  resolved  to  seek  her  happi 
ness  rather  than  his  own  ends,  the  dark  clouds 
already  overhanging  their  household  would  have 
been  scattered,  and  the  bright  sunshine  filled 
every  chamber.  But  there  was  no  such  movement 
in  his  cold,  selfish  nature.  A  little  while  his 
wife  stood  near  him,  with  her  eyes  no  longer  wet 
with  tears, — her  cheeks  no  longer  flushed  with 
feeling, — and  then  moved  back  slowly,  increasing 
the  distance  between  them,  until  she  reached  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  She  then  turned  her 
face  from  him,  and  stood  still. 

"Jane!"  Mr.  Hardy  spoke  sternly. 

Slowly  she  turned  round,  and  in  so  doing  showed 


THE   "NEW  HOME.  97 

a  fare  as  colourless  as  marble,  and  eyes  that  had 
a  stony  aspect. 

"  Jane  !  do  you  hear  me  ?" 

There  seemed  not  even  an  attempt  to  reply. 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  by  this  ?"  The 
voice  was  neither  so  stern,  nor  so  imperative. 

A  fi-cble  flushing  of  the  cheeks,  a  slight  glancing 
of  the  eyes,  a  scarcely  perceptible  motion  of  the 
lips,  showed  that  his  words  had  reawakened  her 
to  the  consciousness  of  what  was  passing. 

"  Is  this  the  right  beginning  for  us  ?  Oh,  Jane  ! 
how  little  did  I  dream  that  such  a  trial  as  this  was 
in  store  for  me,  when,  with  a  heart  full  of  joyful 
anticipations,  I  asked  you  to  become  my  wedded 
wife." 

The  hue  of  death  again  settled  over  the  counte 
nance  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  and,  staggering  forward, 
she  fell  upon  the  sofa — not  this  time  in  a  state  of 
insensibility,  but  of  utter  physical  prostration. 

Shall  we  say  it  ?  Yes,  even  at  the  risk  of  having 
the  narrative  doubted,  as  involving  an  impossibility; 
— not  a  single  wave  of  pity  moved  over  the  surface 
of  her  husband's  feelings !  He  did  not  spring 
forward  to  lift  her  up  tenderly;  he  showed  no 
sign  of  alarm  ;  he  merely  stood  where  he  was,  and 
looked  on  coldly  !  It  was,  in  his  eyes,  only  acting  ; 
or,  if  there  was  real  emotion  at  the  bottom,  dis 
appointed  self-will  was  its  exciting  impulse.  No; 
lie  had  no  pity ;  r.o  sympathy.  His  cool,  Avell- 


THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

balanced  mind  was  not  disturbed  by  any  feeling  ot 
commiseration  for  his  wife.  He  was  only  offended 
by  her  pertinacity.  A  moment  he  looked  sternly 
upon  her  form  as  it  lay  crouching  upon  the  sofa, 
with  the  face  hidden;  and  then  calmly  left  the 
room,  and  went  up  stairs  with  a  measured  tread. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards,  the  ringing  of  a  bell 
was  heard.  It  was  the  announcement  that  dinner 
was  on  the  table.  Mr.  Hardy  went  to  the  dining- 
room  without  seeking  his  wife.  He  was  a-  little 
surprised  to  find  her  there,  giving  some  brief 
directions  to  the  servant.  Her  manner  was  com 
posed,  and  her  voice  steady;  but  her  face  was 
almost  hueless.  She  quietly  took  her  position  at 
the  table,  and  served  her  husband  to  the  various 
dishes.  Upon  her  own  plate,  she  took  only  one  or 
two  mouthfuls,  and,  though  she  made  a  feint  of 
eating,  scarcely  anything  passed  her  lips. 

Thus  was  their  first  meal  in  their  own  home 
eaten  in  silence,  and  under  painful  embarrassment 
on  both  sides.  It  was  ominous  of  dark  and  evil 
days  to  come.  Rising  from  the  table  at  its  close, 
Mr.  Hardy,  without  speaking,  left  the  dining-room. 
His  wife,  still  seated,  turned  her  ear,  and  listened 
to  his  footsteps  as  he  moved  along  the  passages. 
That  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  jar  of  the  street- 
door,  was  evident  from  the  start  she  gave,  as  the 
sound  struck  upon  her  ear.  She  sat  very  still  for 
a  few  monents,  and  then  rising,  went  up  to  her 


THE    NEW   HOME.  99 

own  room,  shut  the  door,  and  locked  it.  Crossing 
her  hands,  and  laying  them  tightly  upon  her 
bosom,  she  lifted  her  eyes  upwards,  and  offered  a 
silent  prayer.  But  the  anguish  of  her  spirit  was 
not  removed.  While  the  arrow  rankled  in  her 
heart,  there  could  be  no  cessation  of  pain. 

After  a  brief,  unavailing  struggle  with  her  feel 
ings,  Mrs.  Hardy,  weak  in  body  as  in  spirit,  laid 
herself  upon  her  bed,  and  with  shut  eyes,  in  a 
state  of  half-conscious  misery,  passed  the  hours 
until  evening.  A  little  before  her  husband's  re 
turn,  she  aroused  herself,  and  removing  as  far  as 
possible,  all  traces  of  suffering  from  her  counte 
nance,  met  him  with  an  air  so  pleasant  and.  cheer 
ful,  that  he  was  surprised  and  gratified.  He  had 
expected  a  very  different  reception.  Just  as  far  as 
pride  and  self-will  would  let  him  go,  did  he  seek 
to  conciliate  her  feelings,  and  to  yield  to  what  he 
deemed  her  wishes.  Purposely  he  avoided  all 
allusion  to  their  home  and  to  household  matters, 
lest  he  .should  touch  a  discordant  string.  The 
result  well  repaid  him  for  this  small  measure  of 
self-control.  Something  of  the  former  light  came 
back  into  her  eyes  ;  something  of  the  old  warmth 
to  her  cheeks,  and  the  wonted  music  to  her  voice. 
A  few  friends  called  after  tea,  and  the  evening 
passed  cheerfully  away.  Mrs.  Hardy's  voice  had 
been  well  trained,  and  she  sang  with  uncommon 
sweetness.  On  this  occasion,  she  almost  surpassed 


100  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

herself,  and  her  husband  listened  to  her  voice  and 
her  praises  with  a  glow  of  pride. 

*'  How  happy  we  miyht  be!"  he  sighed  faintly, 
as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind.  "  Beautiful — 
accomplished — possessing  every  external  grace" — 
so  his  thoughts  ran  on. — "  Ah,  if  there  were  only 
submission  and  self-denial !  Alas !  alas !  who 
could  have  dreamed  that  one  so  gentle,  so  unob 
trusive,  so  apparently  unselfish,  had  so  strong  a 
will  and  such  endurance  ?" 

"  What  a  little  paradise  you  have !"  said  one 
fair  friend  tc  the  bride. 

"If  you  are  not  happy  here,  there  is  no  happi 
ness  to  be  found  on  earth,"  said  another. 

Mr.  Hardy  stood  by  when  these  remarks  were 
made,  and  looked  steadily  into  the  face  of  his 
wife  to  see  the  effect.  But  he  could  perceive  no 
change  in  its  expression. 

"  How  perfectly  she  can  act!"  thought  he. 

Blind,  ungenerous  man !  Perversely  bent  on 
misinterpretation  !  That  thought  warped  his  feel 
ings  again,  and  opened  his  mind  to  the  influx  of 
subtle  accusations. 

The  sudden  depression  that  followed  the  break 
ing  up  of  a  company  before  whom  she  had  really 
been  acting  a  part,  only  confirmed  Mr.  Hardy  iu 
the  idea  that  his  wife  was  assuming  a  great  deal 
more  than  she  felt,  in  order  to  gain  her  purposes 
He  did  not  permit  himself  to  utter  the  thoughts 


TH*    NEW    HOME.  101 

thai  were  in  his  mind,  for  he  wished  to  avoid  a 
gcene ;  but  his  manner  became  icy  cold  as  he  per 
ceived  a  change  in  his  wife's  deportment. 

And  so  there  rested  darkness  and  silence  upon 
their  spirits,  as  well  as  darkness  and  silence  upon 
the  face  of  nature.  Very  ominous  of  dark  days  to 
come,  was  this  termination  of  their  first  day's 
life  in  their  new  home.  Alas !  alas  i  for  all  who, 
like  them,  are  unequally  joked  together  1 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ani  Sun-(|I«s* 

....."  High  winds  worse  withto 
Began  to  rise ;  high  passions,  anger,  hate, 
Mistrust,  suspicion,  discord  ;  and  shook  sore 
Their  inward  state  of  mind,  calm  region  onc« 
And  full  of  peace,  now  tost  and  turbulent. 

*  •  •  •  • 

Thus  they  in  mutual  accusation  spent 
The  fruitless  hours,  but  neither  self-condemning, 
And  of  their  vain  contest  appear'd  no  end." — MILTON. 

THROUGH  many  wakeful  hours  of  the  night  that 
followed  this  first  day  of  trial  in  their  new  home, 
did  Mrs.  Hardy  lie  and  ponder  the  question  of 
duty.  Ah  !  if  it  had  been  the  question  of  love — 
nothing  would  have  been  easier  than  the  solution! 
Morning  found  her  with  the  problem  yet  un 
solved.  Pale  cheeks,  weary  eyes,  joyless  coun 
tenance,  silent  lips !  Across  the  breakfast  table 
John  Hardy  looked,  and  saAV  but  these  !  Did  they 
move  him  with  pity  ?  Did  loving  sympathy,  or 
tender  emotion,  awaken  in  his  heart?  No!  He 
saw  only  the  unlovely  type  of  a  yet  unconquered 
pride ;  and  anger,  not  love,  stirred  in  his  bosom. 


CLOUDS   AND    SUN-GLEAMS.  103 

Even  while  the  ears  of  his  sad  young  wife  were 
listening  for  words  of  comfort,  he  was  meditating 
sharp  repi-oof.  When  she  saw  his  lips  part,  and 
heard  the  first  murmur  of  his  voice,  after  a  long 
silence,  her  heart  leaped  np  with  an  eager  impulse. 

"  I  bargained  for  sunshine,  not  cloud  and  tem 
pest."  A  low  shudder  went  electrically  through 
every  fibre  of  her  soul.  The  expectant  heart  sunk 
down  like  lead  in  her  bosom.  But  her  coun 
tenance  revealed  scarcely  anything  below  the 
surface.  Calmly — so  it  seemed  to  her  husband — 
looked  her  spirit  forth.  Mr.  Hardy  was  irritated. 

"  A  contract  is  a  contract ;" — he  spoke  wuh 
cold  severity ; — "  and  among  men,  such  things 
cannot  be  violated  without  loss  of  honour." 

Still  the  eyes  of  his  wife  looked  out  calmly 
upon  him  ; — still  her  countenance  remained  im 
passive.  There  was  no  motion  about  her  lips  ; — 
no  indication  of  feeling.  His  words  seemed  as  if 
flung  back  upon  him  mockingly. 

"  I  am  tired  of  all  this,  Jane,"  he  said,  after 
waiting  for  some  response.  "  Clouds  and  tem 
pests  were  never  to  my  mind.  I  like  clear  skies 
and  sunshine." 

Mr.  Hardy  had  seen,  more  than  once  in  his 
lifetime,  blows  given  with  such  stunning  force 
that  the  body  receiving  them  was  deprived,  for  a 
brief  period,  of  even  respiration.  But  it  nevei 
once  occurred  to  him,  that  the  heavy  blows  his 


104  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

strong  arm  was  inflicting  upon  a  weak,  sensitive 
woman,  were  in  as  full  a  measure  depriving  her 
spirit  of  even  the  power  to  evince  a  sign  of 
suffering. 

"  Heaven  help  us  both,  if  life  is  to  go  on  after 
this  fashion !"  he  exclaimed,  rising  from  the  table. 
"  It  is  well  said,  that  woman  is  a  mystery !"  He 
stood  and  gazed  down  upon  his  wife,  who  sat, 
with  drooping  eyelids,  and  unchanging  expression. 
She  saw  not  the  aspect  of  his  countenance  with 
her  natural  eyes,  but  all  its  terrible  sternness  was 
mirrored  to  the  eyes  of  her  spirit  with  blasting 
distinctness. 

"  Jane  !  will  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

As  quickly,  as  the  glancing  of  a  thought  were 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Hardy  raised  to  the  face  of  her 
husband.  A  few  moments  they  looked  at  each 
other  steadily. 

"  Will  you  answer  me,  Jane  ?" 

"  I  will.  Say  on."  The  evenness  of  her  tone 
a  little  surprised  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  Do  you  think  that  all  this  is  loving  and  right  ?' 

"To  what  do  you  refer.'" 

Still  the  voice  was  very  calm. 

"  To  your  purpose  to  thwart  my  desires ;  to 
make  the  home  I  had  pictured  in  the  future  as  a 
paradise,  a  darker,  colder,  and  more  wretched 
place  than  the  dreary  world,  into  which  our  first 
parents  went  when  thrust  from  Eden." 


CLOUDS    AND    SUN-GLEAMS.  105 

"  I  have  no  such  purpose,  Mr.  Hardy ;  and 
God  is  my  witness  that  I  speak  the  truth.  As 
ycur  wife,  I  will  strive  earnestly,  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  to  do  my  whole  duty.  This  I  have 
already  pledged  you;  and  I  now  renew  the  pledge. 
If  strength  fail  me — if  the  burden  be  too  heavy — 
if  I  fall  by  the  way — the  weakness  must  be  for 
given  for  its  own  sake.  But  if  I  can  bear  up,  I  will. 
Only  have  patience  with  me,  John !  Don't  lay 
your  hand  too  heavily  upon  me  in  the  beginning. 
I  trust  to  be  stronger  and  more  enduring  by  and  by." 

There  was  no  trembling  or  failing  of  the  voice : 
no  drooping  of  the  steady  eye ;  no  sign  of  wavering, 
as  she  said  these  words. 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  were  a  tyrant,  and  you  a 
slave !"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  who  was  angered  rathei 
than  softened  by  her  words.  Pride,  not  tender 
ness  and  sympathy,  was  aroused. 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  feel  the  quick  rising  of  an  in 
dignant  impulse  at  the  ungenerous  blow,  and 
under  its  influence,  she  answered — 

"  I  have,  at  least,  made  one  painful  discovery." 

"  What  ?" 

"  That,  between  the  lover  and  the  husband, 
there  is  as  wide  a  difference  as  between  Cancer 
and  Capricorn." 

"Jane!"  Mr.  Hardy's  brow  contracted,  and 
he  looked  wrathfully  upon  the  young  creature  he 
had  wooed  with  loving  words  from,  the  warm 

Kl 


106  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

home-nest,  where  only  love  had  heen  the  aliment 
of  her  soul ;  looked  wrathfully  upon  his  young 
wife,  who,  never  from  childhood  up  to  the  ripe 
years  of  maidenhood,  had  gazed  into  angry  eyes 
that  hurned  against  her. 

But  she  quailed  not.  With  her,  the  sharpei 
agouy  was  over.  The  truth  had  come,  ere  this, 
in  all  its  hard,  strong,  crushing  power ;  and  now 
the  life-lesson  she  had  to  learn  was  endurance. 

"  I  have  said  it,  John."  She  spoke  low,  sadly, 
yet  not  with  apparent  weakness.  "  Perhaps,  like 
something  you  have  uttered,  it  were  better  if  the 
thought  had  died  in  silence.  But  spoken  thoughts 
can  no  longer  be  hidden  secrets.  You  have  the 
painful  conclusion  to  which  my  heart  has  been 
driven ;  and  it  may  be  well  that  it  is  so." 

Mr.  Hardy  was  confused  and  silenced,  not  only 
by  the  firm  demeanour,  but  by  the  words  of  his 
wife,  which  sounded  strangely  to  his  ears.  That 
she  could  intimate  anything  wrong  or  unreason 
able  on  his  part  confounded  him.  What  had  he 
done  more  than  to  act  upon  the  defensive  ?  Had 
not  all  the  trouble  originated  with  her?  And  now 
to  be  charged  back,  by  implication,  with  any 
wrong  treatment,  was,  in  his  mind,  but  adding 
insult  to  injury.  He  saw  that  a  new  spirit — one 
of  retaliation — had  been  aroused  in  his  wife ; 
and,  just  then,  he  did  not  care  to  drive  it  into 
further  action.  So,  after  returning  for  a  few 


CLOUDS   AND    SUN-GLEAMS.  107 

moments  longer  her  calm,  unvarying  look,  he  left 
the  room,  and  went  forth,  without  a  parting  word, 
to  his  daily  business. 

Very  uncomfortable  did  he  feel — nay,  more,  he 
was  positively  unhappy.  But  he  took  no  blarrje 
to  himself.  Pride  gave  no  place  to  self-accusa 
tion.  Calmly  he  reviewed  the  subject  of  his 
marital  relations ;  and  the  review  only  strength 
ened  the  first  conclusion  of  his  mind.  He  had 
asked  nothing  that  was  not  perfectly  natural. 
'*  In  taking  a  wife,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  does  not 
every  man  look  to  the  establishment  of  a  home  ? 
Who  could  imagine  that,  on  this  question,  any 
division  were  possible  ?  Who  could  dream  that  a 
wife  would  make  objections  ?  Was  I  to  yield 
here  ?  To  give  up  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  ? 
NoJ  All  the  manhood  in  me  says,  No !  I  cannot, 
I  must  not,  I  will  not  be  driven  aside!  Tears, 
vapours,  sharp  words,  impenetrable  silence,  noue 
of  these  can  move  me !  I  will  be  granite  to  all 
opposing  forces.  Yes,  I  will  be  the  ruler  of  my 
own  household.  My  judgment  shall  be  law  !" 

Again,  as  thought  went  on  reviewing  his  un 
happy  relations,  and  memory  recalled  words  and 
incidents,  he  said — "  The  uukindcst  cut  of  all ! 
the  husband  and  the  lover,  Cancer  and  Cnpri- 
certi !  1  shall  never  forget  that,  were  I  to  number 
Methuselah's  years.  What  can  she  mean  by  such 
conduct ?  But  tliis  assumption  of  injured  inuo- 


108  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

cence  -will  avail  nothing.  I  am  on  her  tra(K,  and 
though  she  double  upon  me  like  the  panting  hare 
again  and  again,  I  will  never  yield  the  pursuit. 
John  Hardy  is  always  right  with  himself;  and, 
right  with  himself,  he  cannot  he  wrong  towards 
others.  I  have  asked  nothing  unreasonable — 
have  set  no  foot,  in  trespass,  on  her  prerogative — 
have  sailed  under  no  false  colours." 

And  thus  he  fortified  himself,  looking  only  on 
one  side  of  the  question,  and  seeing  only  that 
aspect  of  the  case  which  flattered  his  pride  and 
encouraged  his  self-will. 

"  I  can  hold  out  as  long  as  she  can  :" — so  he  con 
tinued  talking  with  himself,  as  thought,  ever  and 
anon,  turned  from  business-concerns  to  the  matter 
nearest  his  heart.  "  It  is  but  a  question  of  time  ; 
yet,  of  all  time,  if  needs  be.  I  can  and  will 
hold  out  to  the  end — even  to  the  end  of  life! 
When  John  Hardy  is  right,  he  never  yields  even 
the  fraction  of  a  hair.  If  he  were  to  yield,  he 
would  cease  to  be  John  Hardy !" 

And  thus,  through  all  the  hours  that  intervened 
until  his  return  home,  did  the  ungenerous  young 
husband  continue  to  write  bitter  things  against 
his  wife,  and  to  fortify  himself  in  opposition. 
When  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-knob,  and 
entered,  with  a  firm  step,  at  dinner-time,  his  head 
was  erect,  his  countenance  composed,  his  blue 
pves  calm  even  t«  severity.  His  wife  met  him 


CLOUDS    AND    SUN -GLEAMS.  10& 

with  smiles  and  loving  words ;  and,  for  a  little 
while,  he  was  deceived  into  the  belief  that  they 
were  outward  signs  of  real  feeling,  and  accepted 
them  as  such.  At  once,  the  coldness  of  his  ex 
terior  gave  way ;  light  beamed  from  his  counte 
nance,  his  tones  were  gentle,  and  his  words  kind. 

"  How  much  better  this,  than  clouds  !"  he  said, 
as  they  sat  together  on  one  of  the  sofas.  He  had 
taken  her  hand,  and  was  holding  it  tightly  in  his 
own.  "  O  Jane !  shall  we  not  always  have  light 
in  our  dwelling  ?" 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  answer,  but  her  husband 
felt  her  hand  thrill  in  his  clasp,  as  if  some  strong 
emotion  had  suddenly  been  awakened  in  her 
heart ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  conscious  of 
a  perceptible  shrinking  away  from  him.  Instantly 
his  feelings  changed,  and  the  accusing  spirit  re- 
entered  his  heart.  There  was  a  dead  silence  for 
the  space  of  several  minutes.  Mrs.  Hardy's  hand 
still  lay  in  that  of  her  husband,  but  it  lay  there 
passively,  neither  giving  nor  receiving  the  slight 
est  pressure.  Then  it  was  slowly  withdrawn, 
ajid  with  the  motion  a  sigh  broke  on  the  strll  air 
— a  low  faint  sigh,  yet  painfully  distinct  to  the 
ears  of  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  I  cannot  breathe  an  atmosphere  like  this !" 
he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  starting  to  his  feet.  "  I 
shall  die  of  suffocation." 

And  leaving  the  room  with  a  firm  step,  he  took 


110  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

np  his  hat,  anil  before  Mrs.  Hardy  had  time  tc 
imagine  his  purpose,  had  left  the  house.  As  he 
shut  the  street-door,  the  bell  rung  for  dinner. 

It  was  some  minutes  before  Mrs.  Hardy  had 
strength  to  rise  from  the  sofa,  so  stunned  was  she 
by  this  unexpected  conduct  on  the  part  of  her 
husband.  A  second  time  the  dinner-bell  rung; 
and  then,  for  appearance'  sake,  she  forced  herself 
to  walk  as  far  as  the  dining-room,  where  the 
servant  stood  waiting. 

.  "  Mr.  Hardy  has  gone  out,"  she  said,  in  as 
firm  a  voice  as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  assume ; 
"  and  I  do  not  know  how  soon  he  will  return ; — 
perhaps  not  till  evening.  I  am  not  very  well,  and 
do  not  wish  for  anything;  so,  you  can  remove 
the  dishes  from  the  table.  If  Mr.  Hardy  comes 
back,  you  can  replace  them." 

It  did  not  escape  the  servant's  observation,  that 
his  mistress's  face  was  pallid,  and  her  voice  husky. 
He  had  his  own  thoughts  on  the  subject,  which 
he  did  not  fail  to  express  on  returning  to  the 
kitchen. 

"  I  have  begun ;  and  I  shall  go  through,  cost 
what  it  may !"  said  Mr.  Hardy  to  himself,  as  he 
sat  down  in  a  state  of  remarkable  calmness,  to  eat 
the  dinner  he  had  ordered  at  a  club-house.  "  The 
fiercer  the  tempest,  the  sooner  it  is  over.  If 
gentle  measures  avail  not,  harsher  ones  must  be 
adopted.  There  is  one  thing  certain, — I  can  hold 


CLOUDS   AND    SUN-GLEAMS.  Ill 

ot«t  -43  long  as  Mrs.  Hardy,  who  will  find,  before  she 
has  done  with  this  business,  that,  in  setting  up  her 
will  fe  gainst  mine,  she  has  reckoned  without  her 
host  When  John  Hardy  knows  that  he  is  right, 
John  Hardy  never  yields." 

Excellent  John  Hardy!  In  his  own  eyes  a 
pattern  man ! 

From  the  dining-room  Mrs.  Hardy  went  up, 
with  failering  steps,  to  her  own  room,  where,  after 
shutting  and  locking  the  dnor,  she  sank  upon  her 
knees,  and  lifting  her  tearless  eyes  upwards  to 
ward  heaven,  prayed  thus, — with  an  utterance 
despairing,  rather  than  hopeful : — 

"  O  Lord !  give  me  light,  patience,  strength ! 
Show  me  the  true  path,  and  help  me  to  walk  in 
it,  even  though  sharp  stones  cut  my  feet  at  every 
step.  O  Lord !  pity  and  help  me !  I  am  lost  in  a 
trackless  desert;  and  the  darkness  of  old  Egypt 
is  around  me.  I  have  no  wisdom  of  my  own  to 
guide — no  light  in  my  heart  to  show  me  the  way. 
O  Lord !  pity  and  help  me  !" 

And  thus  she  prayed  for  a  long  time,  writhing 
in  her  agony.  But  no  light  came  as  yet ;  no 
strength  was  given.  The  heaven  seemed  as  brass 
to  her  petitions. 

From  her  knees  she  arose  at  length,  and  in  her 
weakness  and  despair  threw  herself  across  the  bed. 

How  long  she  had  lain  thus,  when  there  came 
a  low  rap  at  her  door,  she  knew  nc  t,  for  suffering 


THE   WITHERED   HEAR1. 

brought  a  partial  paralysis  of  feeling  and  suspen 
sion  of  thought.     She  started  up  and  spoke. 

"  Jane !"  was  the  response. 

It  was  her  mother's  voice.  The  door  was  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Enfield  came  in.  There  was  not  time 
for  the  daughter  to  school  her  exterior,  and  the 
forced  smile  with  which  she  greeted  her  mother,  re 
vealed  more  of  suffering  than  pleasure.  Tenderly 
was  she  enfolded  in  the  maternal  arms,  and  fondly 
were  love's  kisses  laid  upon  her  lips  and  cheeks. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  dear  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Enfield 
with  concern. 

"  Not  very  well.     My  head  aches,"  was  the 
answer.     "  I  have  been  lying  down  since  dinner 
time ;  and  must  have  slept.     What  time  is  it  ?" 

"  After  four." 

"  Then  I  have  been  sleeping.    How  is  father  ?'* 

"  Quite  well.  He  wants  you  and  John  to  come 
down  this  evening." 

"  Does  he  ?  Tell  him  that  if  Mr.  Kardy  has 
no  other  engagement,  we  will  come.  De.ir  father ! 
So  loving,  so  gentle,  so  good !  Since  our  brief 
separation,  tears  come  into  my  eyes  w  lenever  I 
think  of  him.  If  all  men  were  like  hi  D,  what  a 
lisppy  world  this  would  be !  But" — aft  er  a  pause 
— "  all  cannot  be  like  him  ;  for  he  is  b<  st  of  all." 

"  How  is  John  ?"  Mrs.  Enfield  inqu  ired,  wiih- 
out  seeming  to  notice  or  to  understand  tae  remarks 
made  by  her  daughter. 


CLOUDS   AND    SUN-OLEAMS.  113 

"  Tie  is  well,"  was  the  simple  reply. 

"  Delighted,  I  suppose,  with  the  new  home 
upon  which  his  heart  was  set.  I'm  a  little  afraid, 
Jane,  that  we  somewhat  erred  in  making  even 
the  smallest  ohjections  to  his  wishes  in  this  re 
spect, — seeing,  as  we  now  do,  how  the  attractions 
of  a  home  Avere  magnified  in  his  eyes.  He  showed, 
perhaps,  a  little  too  great  eagerness  in  the  matter; 
but,  if  Ave  put  ourselves  in  his  place,  AVC  shall  not 
be  so  greatly  surprised  that  it  was  so.  Here 
centred,  for  him,  the  highest  ideal  of  life  ;  and  he 
was  disturbed  at  anything  which  came  in  between 
himself  and  the  full  realization  of  his  Avishes.  We 
must  have  patience  with  him,  and  make  many 
alloAvances.  All  men  are  not  like  your  father, 
Jane." 

Mrs.  Hardy  only  responded  Avith  a  sigh.  But 
she  was  gaining  temporary  poAver,  to  hide  the 
weakness  of  a  crushed  and  suffering  heart. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Enfield,  "  one  of  the 
greatest  errors  \ve  commit,  and  one  from  Avliich 
the  aAvakening  is  most  painful,  is  the  error  of 
imputing  virtues  in  perfection  to  those  AVC  love. 
But  Aveakness  and  imperfection  are  inherent  in 
all  that  is  human.  Even  the  best  men  and  Avomen 
that  live,  are  only  withheld  from  evil  by  the 
poAver  of  Divine  love." 

"  1  shall  groAv  Aviser,  as  I  groAv  older,  and  gain 
more  experience,  dear  mother,"  replied  Jane; 


114  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  wiser  in  seeing  duty,  and  stronger  to  bear  suf 
fering." 

"  Life  is  not  all  a  day  of  golden  sunshine,"  said 
Mrs.  Enfield.  "  And  it  is  well  for  us,  perhaps, 
that  it  is  not  so.  We  might  become  too  deeply  in 
love  with  this  world,  and  find,  in  its  mere  natural 
and  fleeting  life,  too  intense  an  enjoyment." 

Mrs.  Hardy  sighed  again,  but  did  not  answer. 

"  You  must  not  expect  too  much  of  John," 
resumed  the  mother  cautiously.  "  He  is  all  right 
at  heart,  and  loves  you  truly.  Few  men  have  such 
high  moral  purposes  ; — few,  such  noble  aims.  All 
the  groundwork  of  his  character  is  good.  In  the 
first  starting  there  may  be  a  little  jarring  in  the 
machinery  of  your  lives,  ere  they  can  move  to 
gether  in  harmony  ;  and,  for  a  season,  there  may 
be  a  painful  want  of  accordant  action.  But  all 
will  run  smoothly  in  good  time-" 

"  I  will  believe  it,  dear  mother !"  said  Jane,  in 
a  voice,  the  low  quiver  of  which  struck  a  pang  to 
the  heart  of  Mrs.  Enfield.  "  Time  is  the  great 
restorer  of  harmonies." 

"  It  is,  my  child  ;  and  also  the  great  reconciler. 
Our  path  of  life  leads  upwards,  as  well  as  onwards. 
At  every  step  we  rise  a  little  higher,  and  our 
vision  gains  an  ampler  circle.  What  is  but  dimly 
perceived  to-day  stands  out  to-morrow  clearly 
shaped,  and  seen  in  relation  to  all  that  surrounds 
it.  Objects,  now  so  much  in  shadow  that  they 


CtOTJDS   AND    SUN -GLEAMS.  115 

seem  -mlv  hideous  deformities,  may,  in  a  little 
while,  as  we  ascend  and  get  a  sunnier  aspect, 
appear  to  us,  as  they  really  are,  forms  of  truest 
beauty." 

Mrs.  Enfield  paused ;  but  her  daughter  made 
no  response  to  the  sentiments  just  uttered.  In  a 
little  v\hile,  other  subjects  of  conversation  less 
embarrassing  in  their  nature  were  introduced,  and 
Mrs.  Il.trdy  acquired  a  more  cheerful  tone  of  feel 
ing.  Il  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  her  mother 
left,  witL  the  parting  injunction  to  be  sure  to  come 
down  with  her  husband  after  tea. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Cimung  fours. 

Vong  le  ponves.  et  le  routes; 

Anssi,  iiicni  Dicii.  a  votis  m'addrenet 

Tar  te  moyen  seul  Kyavez 

De  m'oster  hors  de  ma  deatresse. 

•  *  •  * 

Last  hastez-vous,  car  plus  n'cn  pHs." 

MARGLEBUE  D'ANGOCLIJU 

Thon  art  aWe,  thon  art  willing; 
I  unto  Thee  my  prayer  address: 
Tliini  alone  the  means  foreknowing 
Whereby  to  save  from  this  distress. 

•  *  *  • 

Quick  1  lend  thy  strength ;  for  mine  '»  ^nt. 

.TftANSLATIGll. 

Tins  visit  was  a  timely  one.  An  earnest  effort 
had  been  made  by  the  daughter  to  throw  off  the 
dreadful  state  of  depression  from  which  she  was 
suffering,  and  she  was  in  a  great  degree  successful. 
After  her  mother  left,  this  better  tone  of  feeling 
enabled  her  to  make  such  preparation  for  receiv 
ing  her  husband,  as  promised  something  better 
than  silence,  tears,  and  reproaches.  She  tried  to 
forget  his  cruel  conduct  at  dinner-time;  for,  when 
ever  thought  went  back  to  that  incident,  her 
heart  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then  gave  a 


EVENING   HOURS.  117 

bound  that  sent  the  blood  leaping  in  burning 
pulses  through  all  her  veins. 

At  last  she  heard  his  hand  upon  the  door,  and 
his  footsteps  along  the  hall.  She  was  in  the  sitting- 
room,  but  did  not  go  down  to  meet  him,  thinking 
it  best  to  wait  until  he  came  up  and  joined  her. 
How  breathlessly  did  she  watch  for  his  appearance, 
and  how  anxious  was  she  lest  the  first  glance  at 
his  countenance  should  meet  a  cold,  stern,  angry 
look  !  He  ascended  the  stairs,  and  passed  the 
sitting-room  door  without  coining  in,  keeping  on 
toward  the  room  above. 

"  Jane  !"  How  suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet. 
It  was  his  Voice  calling  to  her;  and  the  tone  was 
kind,  even  affectionate. 

How  lightly  she  sprung  away,  bounding  in  a 
few  steps  from  the  parlour,  and  answering  as  she 
came  near  the  bed-room — 

"  Here  I  am,  dear." 

There  was  warmth  on  her  cheeks,  and  light 
in  her  eyes,  as  she  came  into  his  presence,  and 
laid  her  hands,  that  were  extended  towards  him, 
into  his. 

lie  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  So  sudden  was 
the  transition  of  feeling  consequent  on  this  tender 
reception,  that  it  required  the  strongest  effort  on 
her  part  to  keep  from  tears.  And  why  should  tears 
be  restrained?  Ah! — they  were  signs  of  pain, 
not  joy,  in  ths  eyes  of  her  husband;  ami  she  dared 

L2 


118  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

not  permit  their  flow,  lest  he  should  regard  them 
as  rebuking  messengers  sent  forth  from  a  troubled 
heart ! 

Not  the  remotest  allusion  was  made  to  the  un 
happy  incident  which,  a  few  hours  before,  had 
darkened  their  souls'  horizon.  Both  were  desirous 
to  have  it  pass,  for  the  time,  into  deepest  oblivion. 
While  they  yet  talked  pleasantly  together,  tea  was 
announced,  and  they  went  down,  arm  in  arm,  to 
the  dining-room.  This  proved  the  most  home-like 
meal  they  had  eaten  together  in  their  new  dwell 
ing.  After  it  was  over,  they  went  into  the  parlour. 
Mr.  Hardy  had  on  his  slippers  and  dressing  gown; 
and  the  young  husband,  as  he  moved  backwards 
and  forwards  the  entire  length  of  the  two  elegantly 
furnished  rooms,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  could 
not  help,  in  his  self-satisfied  pride,  repeating  to 
himself — 

"  I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 
Jly  right  there  is  none  to  dispute." 

The  sun  had  set — the  .twilight  fallen  peacefully 
upon  nature — and  now  the  brilliant  gas  lamps 
were  burning  in  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Hardy,  from 
which  the  world  was  all  excluded.  How  very 
independent  of  this  outer  world  he  felt, — how 
entirely  satisfied  with  his  inner  home-world.  His 
wife  had  sung  his  favourite  songs,  and  played  his 
favourite  airs,  and  exerted  herself  to  please  him  in 


EVENING    HOURS.  119 

every  possible  way  that  she  could  think  of;  and 
she  was  altogether  successful.  Mr.  Hardy's  spirit 
was  basking  in  sunshine.  Something  of  his  high 
ideal  of  home  was  being  realized. 

"  Mother  was  here  this  afternoon,"  said  Mrs. 
Hardy,  as  her  husband  laid  his  hand  upon  a 
favourite  volume,  from  which  she  knew  he  pur 
posed  reading  some  passages  aloud. 

"Ah!  was  she?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  promised  her,  that  if  you  were 
not  engaged  for  this  evening  in  any  other  way,  we 
would  go  down  to-night.  Father  sent  particular 
word  for  us  to  come." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  engaged,"  replied  Mr.  Hardy, 
half  smiling,  half  serious. 

"  Are  you  ?  I  am  sorry.  Father  will  be  dis 
appointed." 

"  Not  so  very  much,  I  presume.  It  is  not  an 
age  since  he  saw  you." 

.  "It  may  seem  an  age  to  him,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Hardy,  with  the  slightest  apparent  depression  in 
her  tone.  "  But,  where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  stay  at  home,"  was  firmly  answered. 
"  My  engagement  is  with  my  wife  this  evening." 

"  She  will  excuse  you."     Mrs.  Hardy  tried  to 
speak   very  lightly,  and   to  smile  in  the  gayest 
manner.      But   neither   effort  was   entirely   sue 
cessful. 

"  Ah,  but  I  don't  mean  to  be  excused." 


120  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"  But  father  will  expect  us,  John.  I  told 
mother,  if  you  had  no  other  engagement,  we 
would  come ;  and  if  they  find  out  that  we  stayed 
at  home,  they  will  feel  hurt." 

"  I  did  not  authorize  you  to  speuk  for  me, 
did  I  ?" 

"  I  thought  it  would  give  you  pleasure  to  give 
me  and  them  pleasure,"  replied  Mrs.  Hardy ;  "  and 
believing  this,  I  spoke  confidently." 

"  Charity  begins  at  home,  you  know,  Jane" — 
Mr.  Hardy  was  very  self-composed,  and  spoke  with 
a  quiet  smile  playing  about  his  lips  ;  "  it  begins  at 
home,  and  afterwards  diffuses  itself.  I  want  to 
cultivate  the  home-feeling  a  little ; — to  get  used 
to  my  slippers  and  dressing  gown.  We  men 
after  a  day's  battle  with  the  world,  feel  too  com 
fortable  at  home  to  care  about  making  night- 
forays.  No,  Jane,  I  cannot  go  out  this  evening." 

Mr.  Hardy  was  in  earnest,  and  the  tone  in 
which  he  spoke  the  closing  sentences  satisfied  his 
wife  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
complying  with  her  wishes. 

As  a  simple  incident  in  their  lives,  unconnected 
with  any  unpleasant  antecedents,  this  little  cir 
cumstance  could  have  had  no  power  to  mar  their 
happiness.  It  would  have  been  only  a  passing 
ripple  on  the  surface  of  things,  while  all  remained 
peaceful  below.  But,  unfortunately,  it  stood  in 
too  close  a  relation  with  much  that  was  painful  to 


EVENING    HOURS.  121 

their  feelings ;  and  both  were  conscious  of  the 
intruding  presence  of  a  shadow,  the  unwelcome 
precursor  of  an  enemy  to  their  peace. 

Mrs.  Hardy  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  She 
did  not  even  trust  herself  with  the  words,  "  Let  it 
be  as  you  wish,  John,"  although  they  were  on  her 
lips.  She  feared  to  speak,  lest  more  of  disappoint 
ment  should  be  visible  than  she  wished  to  show ; 
and  so  she  sat  in  silence,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down. 

Mr.  Hardy's  evil  genius  now  found  easy  access 
to  his  mind,  and  at  once  began  to  whisper  accusa 
tions  against  his  young  wife.  He  opened  the  book 
upon  which  he  had  laid  his  hand  at  the  beginning 
of  the  conversation,  and  running  over  the  leaves, 
selected  a  passage  which  he  commenced  reading 
aloud.  As  he  did  so,  he  perceived  that  his  wife 
turned  herself  slightly  from  him.  She  was  not 
herself  conscious  of  doing  so ;  although  such  was 
the  fact. 

Mr.  Hardy  read  on  for  some  time.  Then  he 
paused,  and  made  some  remarks  on  what  he  had 
been  reading.  His  wife's  responses  showed  plainly 
enough  that  her  thoughts  were  not  with  the 
author's,  upon  whose  beauties  her  husband  was 
descanting.  Mr.  Hardy  read  on  again;  and  again 
stopped  for  comment,  this  time  purposely  asking 
questions  that  his  wife  could  not  answer,  without 
Betraying  her  state  of  entire  abstraction. 


THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

"  Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  wish  to  hear  me  read," 
he  said,  in  an  offended  tone  of  voice,  shutting  the 
book  as  he  spoke,  "  I  have  no  desire  to  worry  you 
with  my  poor  performances." 

"  Oh,  John !  do  not  speak  so  to  me  ! "  Mrs. 
Hardy  turned  upon  her  hushancl  an  appealing 
look.  "  I  always  like  to  hear  you  read.  Go  on 
again,  won't  you?  My  thoughts  were,  for  the 
moment,  wandering.  We  cannot  always  help 
that.  Read  on,  won't  you !  and  please,  John,  do 
not  speak  so  to  me  any  more !  You  do  not  know 
how  hard  I  find  it  to  hear  any  tones  from  your 
lips  that  are  not  full  of  love." 

"  Speak  to  you  in  what  way,  Jane  ?  I  don't 
quite  understand  you." 

There  was  affected  surprise  in  Mr.Hardy's  manner. 

"  As  you  spoke  to  me  just  now." 

"  How  did  I  speak  to  you  ?"  Mr.  Hardy  was 
cold  and  imperative. 

"  As  if  you  were  offended  Avith  me." 

"  And  so  I  am." 

"  Oh,  John  !  I  cannot  bear  it  1" 

"  Cannot  bear  what  ?" 

"  That  you  should  feel  anger  towards  me." 

"  I  am  not  angry.    What  a  silly  child  you  are  !" 

"  Then  read  on,  won't  you  ?" 

"No;  why  should  1?  Your  thoughts  are  far 
away  from  here.  No  book  can  interest  you  this 
evening." 


EVENING    HOURS. 

"  I  will  be  all  attention.     Don't  stop  reading.'" 

But  Mr.  Hardy,  instead  of  re-opening  the 
volume,  tossed  it  from  him  upon  the  table,  in  a 
pettish  manner. 

The  full  heart  of  his  wife  could  bear  no  more. 
Tears  would  flow.  To  conceal  them,  she  turned 
herself  from  the  light,  so  that  her  face  was  hidden 
from  her  husband's  eyes.  Mr.  Hardy  noticed  the 
movement,  and  gave  it  a  wrong  interpretation. 

A  little  while  he  sat  meditating  on  what  he 
should  do  or  say.  He  felt  very  impatient  at 
these  strange  and  unexpected  freaks  in  his  young 
wife. 

"  Am  I,"  he  said  to^  himself,  "  to  have  no  will 
of  my  own? — no  preferences?  Must  I,  at  the 
peril  of  tears  and  reproaches,  stand  ready  to  do 
her  bidding  at  all  seasons  ?  Are  her  inclinings  to 
be  my  law  ?  Never  !  When  I  give  up  all  freedom 
and  manhood  after  that  fashion,  I  shall  cease 
to  be  John  Hardy  !" 

"Jane!" — he  turned  towards  his  wife,  speaking 
in  the  decided  tone  of  one  who  has  made  up  his 
mind, — "  if  you  have  set  your  heart  on  going  to 
your  father's  to-night,  I  will  send  for  a  carriage. 
I  have  no  desire  to  deprive  you  of  any  pleasure. 
As  for  myself,  I  do  not  wjsh  to  go  out,  and  shall 
remain  at  home." 

Mrs.  Hardy  made  no  reply.  How,  or  what, 
could  she  answer?  Do  or  say  what  she  would, 


124  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

act  and  Avord  were  certain  to  be  misapprehended, 
So  she  neither  moved,  nor  made  any  response. 

"  Shall  I  call  the  servant,  and  tell  him  to  get 
you  a  carriage  ?" 

Mr.  Hardy  spoke  very  firmly. 

The  cruelty  of  all  this  roused  so  indignant  a 
spirit  in  the  suffering  heart  of  the  young  wife,  that 
she  almost  yielded  to  the  impulse  which  prompted 
her  to  say — 

"  Yes  ;  call  him  : — but  it  will  be  the  last  service 
I  shall  ever  receive  at  your  hands  !" 

She  had  even  turned,  with  a  flashing  glance 
upon  him,  and  the  sentence  was  about  escaping 
from  her  tongue,  when  the  whisper  of  a  good 
spirit  gave  power  to  restrain  the  utterance  of  words 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  would  only  have 
been  fruitful  of  evil.  Mr.  Hardy  noted  the  sudden 
kindling  of  her  eyes,  and  the  indignant  flush  that 
for  an  instant  mantled  her  cheek ;  and,  for  the 
moment,  he  was  startled.  He  saw  that  there  was 
a  spirit  in  his  wife  which  it  might  not  be  well  to 
arouse. 

Not  another  wdYd  passed  between  them  during 
the  evening.  Mr.  Hardy  took  up  the  volume  he 
had  been  reading  aloud,  and  tried,  though  vainly, 
to  get  interested  in  its  pages ;  while  Mrs.  Hardy 
sat  foi  nearly  an  hour,  with  her  head  resting  on 
her  bosom,  silent  and  motionless  as  an  effigy.  How 
crushed,  and  weak,  and  hopeless  she  felt.  Al] 


EVENING   HOURS.  125 

things  seemed  closing  around,  and  pressing  upon 
her.,,  No  ray  of  light  streamed  in  through  the 
shadows  that  wrapped  her  spirit  in  darkness.  In 
the  despairing  anguish  of  her  soul,  she  prayed 
that  she  might  die. 

"  O  Lord  !" — thus  she  directed  her  cry  upwards 
— "  this  burden  is  too  heavy  for  me  !  It  is  crushing 
me  to  the  earth.  Oh,  let  the  cup  pass  from  me. 
Let  me  die !" 

And  even  while  this  cry  of  anguish  was  ascend 
ing,  the  thoughts  of  the  husband  were  busy  in 
accusations  against  his  wife.  She  was  the  perverse 
wrong-doer,  and  he  the  sufferer.  Her  silence  he 
called  moodiness;  its  long  continuance,  her  un 
yielding  purpose  to  break  down  his  endurance. 
"  A  woman's  weapons  !"  he  said  to  himself — 
"  and  they  are  an  overmatch  for  most  men.  But 
John  Hardy  is  no  weakling.  He  takes  care  to  be 
right ;  and  right  is  strong  as  iron !  She  will  under 
stand  this  in  good  time.  Let  her  struggle  on  as 
she  will.  It  is  but  the  unhappy  waves  of  passion 
dashing  against  shores  of  immovable  granite." 
Several  times  he  was  tempted  into  the  utterance 
of  some  cold,  cutting,  ironical  words.  He  was  an 
adept  in  the  use  of  speech — he  had  the  organ  of 
language;  but,  at  the  expense  of  some  self-denial, 
he  wisely  forbore. 

"  This  is  a  hopeful  beginning" — so  his  thoughts 

formed  themselves  into  a  meutal  soliloquy,  as  his 

if 


126  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

head  reclined  on  his  pillow  that  night — "  this  is 
a  great  deal  more  than  I  bargained  for !  If  this 
is  wedded  happiness,  what  a  prospect  for  the 
future  !  If  this  is  wifely  submission,  and  loving 
devotion,  how  have  I  misconceived  the  impoit  of 
the  words!  It  is  plain  that  a  struggle  for  supre 
macy  has  begun  in  real  earnest ;  and  that  before 
any  peace  is  to  be  obtained,  one  side  or  the  other 
must  conquer.  Shall  I  yield  ?  Shall  I  step  down 
from  the  manly  position  that  is  by  nature  my 
right  and  prerogative  ?  Shall  I  be  ruled  by  a 
woman?  Is  my  reason  to  submit  to  a  woman's 
variant  impulses  ?  Never !  There  is  too  much  of 
the  man  about  John  Hardy  for  this  !  First  or  last, 
Jane  must  give  way  ;  and  the  sooner  I  can  break 
down  her  determined  self-will,  the  better  it  will  be  for 
both  of  us.  It  is  a  hard  task  to  put  upon  a  young 
husband — a  sad  reality,  in  lieu  of  the  beautiful 
ideal  so  fondly  cherished — a  pillow  of  thorns,  in 
stead  of  a  downy  resting-place.  But,  when  enemies 
to  our  peace  rise  up  in  our  path,  the  only  hope  lies 
in  conquest.  And  so,  I  must  hold  my  true  posi 
tion  with  a  sterner  courage ;  and  in  battling  for 
the  right,  I  must  give  heavier  and  quicker  blows 
in  hope  of  a  speedier  victory." 

And  then,  the  self- approving  John  Hardy 
meditated  new  cruelties  towards  the  wretched 
young  creature,  who,  shrinking  in  hopeless  suffer 
ing  on  the  pillow  beside  him,  was  praying  in  her 


EVENING    HOURS.  127 

sliarp  despair  for  strength,  patience,  and  guiding 
light.  But  no  strength  came,  and  not  even  a  star- 
ray  penetrated  the  darkness  of  her  soul. 

After  an  hour  of  wakefulness,  she  became  aware, 
from  his  deep  breathing,  that  her  husband  slept. 
Once  assured  that  all  his  senses  were  locked  in 
slumber,  the  power  to  lie  motionless,  or  even 
remain  in  bed,  was  instantly  removed;  and  she 
was  impelled  to  rise  and  move  about  the  room 
like  some  uneasy  spirit.  She  felt  strangely  ;  and 
a  cold  shudder  chilled  her  to  the  heart,  as  the 
thought  of  insanity  flashed  over  her  mind,  conscious 
as  she  was  that  suffering  had  already  drawn  every 
fibre  of  endurance  to  its  utmost  tension. 

"  O  Lord,  help  me !"  she  again  prayed,  in 
trembling  fear.  "  Help  me  !  save  me  !" 

And  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  for  along  time 
remained  bowed  in  spirit  before  Heaven.  Gradually 
a  more  tranquil  state  of  mind  was  attained,  and 
she  returned  to  the  pillow  she  had  left,  though  not 
for'  a  long  time  to  find  the  oblivion  of  her  wo. 


CHAPTER  X. 


"  Everywhere, 

3ost  what  they  will,  snch  crnel  freaks  are  p!»yM| 
Vnd  hence  tlie  turmoil  in  this  world  of  our*, 
The  turmoil  never  ending,  still  beginning, 
flie  wailing  and  the  tears."  —  ItocEKa. 

MR.  HAH..Y  awoke  early  the  next  morning,  and 
while  his  wife  still  slept,  meditated  the  questions 
of  right,  duty,  prerogative,  and  the  sources  of 
domestic  peace.  His  conclusions  were  simple 
confirmations  of  the  night's  purposes.  All  their 
present  trouhle  arose,  in  his  view,  from  the  fact, 
that  his  wife  desired  to  have  her  own  will  in  all 
things,  a  desire  so  unreasonable  and  so  unrealizable, 
that  the  very  fact  of  its  existence  filled  him  with 
astonishment.  The  pertinacity  she  had  exhibited 
vexed  him.  The  peculiar  character  of  his  manli 
ness  gave  him  a  feeling  of  contempt  for  woman's 
strength,  and  he  felt  piqued  that  so  fragile,  mild, 
and  heretofore  so  gentle  and  yielding  a  woman, 
should  be  able  to  hold  him  in  something  like 
defiance. 


THE  NON-ARRIVAL  129 

Very  coolly,  and  after  grave  deliberation,  did 
Mr.  Hardy  decide  upon  his  course  of  action  towards 
his  wife,  at  least  for  that  day.  If  there  was  any 
failure  on  her  part  to  meet  him  cheerfully,  and  to 
diffuse  that  sunlight  in  his  home,  which  he  had  a 
right  to  expect  from  her  presence,  he  would  imme 
diately  withdraw  himself,  and  that  in  a  way  which 
she  must  feel  to  be  a  rebuke. 

"  If  she  wish  to  play  the  game  of  endurance,  she 
will  find  her  match  in  me,"  he  said  resolutely  to 
himself. 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  awake  until  after  her  husband 
had  left  the  room.  Perceiving  that  it  Avas  late, 
she  hurriedly  attired  herself,  so  as  to  be  ready  to 
join  him  at  the  breakfast-table,  when  the  bell 
rang.  Her  mind  had  become  much  calmer  through 
the  restoring  power  of  sleep,  and  she  had  clearer 
views  of  her  duty,  and  of  the  necessity  of  studying 
more  carefully  the  tastes  and  peculiarities  of  hei 
husband,  so  as  to  adapt  herself  to  them. 

"  I  must  be  more  of  a  woman,  and  less  of  a 
child,"  she  said ; — "  having  stepped  forth  into 
the  world,  I  must  meet  the  world  with  a  brave, 
enduring  spirit.  My  husband  cannot  mean  to  do 
me  wrong,  he  only  misunderstands  me.  I  am  too 
sensitive.  Hitherto,  all  my  wishes  have  found  so 
prompt  a  gratification,  that  I  have  learned  to 
expect  too  much.  Why  should  I  not  have  disap 
pointments  to  bear  as  well  as  others?  There 

•  a 


130  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

must  be  something  wrong  in  my  manner,  or  else 
John  would  not  be  so  impatient  with  me." 

The  breakfast-bell  rung  while  Mrs.  Hardy  thus 
talked  within  herself;  and  she  stepped  forth 
quickly  from  her  room,  to  join  her  husband  as  he 
descended  the  stairs. 

"  Good  morning !"  she  said,  with  a  smile ;  and 
bent  forward  towards  him,  expecting  the  usual 
kiss  at  meeting.  -But  her  husband  did  not  offer 
the  desired  salute. 

What  a  chill  of  disappointment  came  over  her 
feelings !  She  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm, 
compelling  herself  to  the  act,  and  thus  they 
entered  the  breakfast-room. 

Mr.  Hardy  looked  serious,  and  showed  no  in 
clination  to  converse.  Mrs.  Hardy  tried  to  appear 
at  ease,  and  to  seem  cheerful.  But  the  aspect  of 
her  husband's  face  troubled  her ;  and  she  felt  the 
little  artificial  strength  she  had  summoned  up, 
gradually  dying  out.  Suddenly  all  self-control 
departed,  and,  powerless  to  restrain  them,  tears 
began  to  flow  down  her  cheeks.  There  was  no 
sobbing,  nor  visible  agitation  of  the  body;  no  sign 
of  inward  pain  except  the  silently  falling  drops  of 
grief.  At  first,  Mr.  Hardy  did  not  observe  them, 
so  perfectly  were  all  other  manifestations  repressed; 
but,  looking  up  in  a  few  moments,  and  seeing 
them  glittering  upon  her  cheeks  and  filling  her 
eyes,  he  let  knife  and  fork  drop  from  his  hands,  as 


THE   NON-ARRIVAL.  131 

if  in  indignant  surprise.  A  little  while  he  gazed 
sternly  upon  his  weeping  wife  ;  then,  without 
uttering  a  word,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  rose, 
and  left  the  room.  lie  did  not  go  upstairs  nor 
linger  in  the  parlours,  but'  took  his  hat  from  the 
stand  in  the  passage,  and  immediately  went  out 
of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Hardy's  tears  suddenly  ceased  to  flow 
She  tried  to  rise  and  follow  her  husband,  but  all 
strength  had  forsaken  her  limbs.  She  tried  to 
call  after  him,  but  her  vocal  organs  were  paralyzed. 
And  so  she  sat  motionless  for  a  little  while,  until 
the  life-blood,  which  had  receded  under  this  new 
blow,  came  back  again  along  its  wonted  currents, 
and  the  power  of  acting  from  the  will  was  restored. 
Very  quietly  she  arose,  and,  ivith  slow  steps, 
passed  from  the  breakfast-room,  and  up  into  the 
sitting-room  above.  She  had  strength  to  go  no 
farther.  Two  hours  afterwards,  she  aroused  her 
self  from  a  state  bordering  on  mental  stupor ;  and 
by  a  forced  effort,  compelled  herself  to  go  across 
to  her  own  room,  and  there  make  some  changes 
in  her  toilette,  so  as  to  be  in  a  condition  to 
see  visitors  should  they  call.  Happily,  she  was 
spared  the  pain  of  meeting  any  one  during  {lie 
morning. 

As  the  time  for  her  husband's  return  approached, 
Mrs.  Hardy  felt  herself  growing  weaker  and 
weaker, -and  less  able  to  keep  back  the  tears  that 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

dimmed  her  vision.     At  last,   the  little   Frcncn 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  the  hour  of  two. 

Hurriedly  did  Mrs.  Hardy  start  from  her  chair; 
anxiously  she  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass ;  then 
bathed  her  eyes  with  cold  water,  hoping  to  remove 
from  it  the  red  traces  of  weeping.  Yet  even  as 
she  held  the  Avet  towel  to  her  face,  tears  mingled 
with  the  water  by  which  she  hoped  to  hide  all 
evidence  of  their  flow. 

"  Vain  !  vain  !"  she  murmured  ;  "  I  am  not 
impassive  marble !" 

A  few  moments  elapsed,  and  yet  the  dreaded 
sound  of  her  husband's  feet  along  the  passage 
and  on  the  stairs  did  not  smite  upon  her  ears. 
Gradually  suspense  changed  to  a  new  feeling. 

"  He  is  late  to-day,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
glanced  towards  the  clock,  and  saw  that,  since 
the  stroke  of  two,  the  minute-hand  had  moved 
forward,  until  it  pointed  to  the  second  figure  on 
the  dial. 

A  sudden  fear  that  Mr.  Hardy  did  not  mean  to 
come  home  before  night-fall,  chilled  her  heart. 
Could  it  be  possible  that,  nursing  his  anger  against 
her,  he  could  act  with  such  deliberate  cruelty  ? 

Five,  ten,  fifteen  minutes  more  went  by.  The 
servant  knocked  lightly  at  the  door  Mrs.  lliirdy 
answered  in  a  tone  of  forced  composure. 

"Please,  ma'am,"  inquired  the  mail,  "is  Mr, 
Hardy  coming  home  to  dinner  ?" 


THE  NON-ARRIVAL.  133 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  It  is  nearly  half-past  two,"  said  the  man. 

"Something  has  detained  him.  Do  not  serve 
dinner  until  lie  comes." 

At  three  o'clock,  there  was  another  rap  at  the 
door  of  her  room. 

"  Shall  1  bring  up  the  dinner,  ma'am  ?  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Hardy  is  coming." 

"  You  can  clear  the  table ;  I  do  not  wish  for 
anything,"  replied  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"  You  may,  if  you  please." 

"  And  a  piece  of  toast  ?" 

"  Yes." 

These  were  brought,  but  not  tasted.  Mrs. 
Hardy  consented  to  receive  them,  merely  to  gratify 
the  servant,  and  to  save  appearances. 

During  the  afternoon,  her  mother  came  in. 
Jane  met  her  with  a  more  composed  aspect  than 
she  had  thought  it  possible  to  assume,  though  all 
traces  of  pain  could  not  be  hidden. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  down  last  night  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Knfield.  "  Your  father  was  very 
much  disappointed." 

"  Mr.  Hardy  returned  just  enough  fatigued  with 
care  and  business  to  wish  for  a  quiet  evening  at 
home,"  replied  the  daughter;  "and  I  could 
not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  urge  him  to  go  out 
with  me." 


134  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is ;  John  is  going  to  he  one  of 
your  home-loving  men,"  said  Mrs.  Enfield.  "  A  nd 
I  am  glad  of  it.  How  much  better  than  if  he 
saw  no  attraction  at  home.  In  this,  my  child, 
you  have  great  cause  for  thankfulness.  I  know 
many  wives  who  would  give  worlds,  did  they 
possess  them,  if  so  they  could  endow  their  hus 
bands  with  home-loving  qualities.  This,  depend 
upon  it,  Jane,  is  one  of  the  prime  virtues." 

Mrs.  Hardy  sighed  faintly,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  It  is  well,"  she  thought  within  herself,  "  that 
my  mother  sees  no  deeper.  May  she  remain 
ignorant,  as  now,  of  the  fearful  ordeal  through 
which  I  am  passing." 

"  I  am  going  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  you, 
and  your  father  will  be  here  to  tea.  If  you  can 
not  go  to  see  him,  he  is  coming  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  he  is  coining !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Hardy,  light  breaking  over  her  face.  "  I  was 
so  unhappy  last  evening  about  disappointing  him, 
that  I  cried  myself  to  sleep." 

"  That  was  foolish,  my  love  ;  and  hardly  fair  to 
your  husband,  particularly  as  he  preferred  staying 
at  home  for  the  enjoyment  of  your  company.  Be 
very  guarded  on  this  point,  Jane.  Young  hus 
bands  never  like  to  see  clouds  on  their  wives'  faces. 
They  look  for  sunshine,  not  sh-ulosvs  and  raindrops. 
You  have  known  but  little  of  disappointment  in 
your  short  life ;  and  therefore  it  is  hard  to  bear  " 


THE   NON-ARRIVAL.  135 

"  I  never  felt  myself  so  weak  as  I  now  am. 
Life  is  all  a  new  experience  to  me.  But  I  shall 
grow  wiser  and  stronger  by  and  by.  It  Avas 
wrong  in  me  to  feel  disappointed  last  night,  when 
Mr.  Hardy  said  he  did  not  wish  to  go  out,  desiring 
r.ather  to  enjoy  the  rest  and  quiet  of  his  own" 
home,  after  a  wearying  day's  labour.  It  did  seem 
to  me  that  he  was  selfish  in  refusing  to  go ;  and  I 
am  afraid  I  was  not  as  amiable,  in  consequence,  as 
I  should  have  been." 

"  That  was  wrong,  very  wrong,  my  child !"  said 
Mrs.  Enfield. 

"  Perhaps  it  was ;  and  I  have  been  sufficiently 
punished.  But  I  will  henceforth  study  self- 
denial,  and  a  cheerful  acquiescence  in  all  my 
husband's  wishes." 

"  There  ought  to  be  no  self-denial,  Jane," 
replied  Mrs.  Enfield.  "That  word  is  cold  and 
hard.  Ought  not  your  husband's  wishes  to  be 
your  pleasure  ?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  Then  seek  to  make  them  such.  If  he,  in  the 
beginning  of  your  wedded  life,  manifests  what 
seems  to  you  an  undue  regard  for  himself,  and  a 
forgetfulness  of  those  loving  attentions  once  GO 
abundantly  bestowed,  do  not  let  this  bring  clouds 
over  the  clear  horizon  of  your  spirit  to  darken  the 
sun  of  love.  Still  keep  your  sky  clear,  that  the 
nun  may  shine.  Love  creates  love.  Seek  hit 


136  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

pleasure,  in  all  things :  yield  to  his  wishes  in 
every  particular  ;  and  soon  from  the  surface  of  his 
life,  >vill  be  reflected  back  upon  you  affection's 
warmest  beams.  Thus  you  will  bind  him  to  you 
with  a  cord  not  to  be  broken,  and  all  your  after 
life  will  overflow  with  blessings." 

While  Mrs.  Enfield  spoke,  her  daughter  laid 
her  face,  as  much  for  concealment  as  in  weakness, 
upon  her  mother's  bosom,  llecovering  in  a  little 
while  the  self-control  she  was  losing,  she  lifted 
her  head,  and  replied — 

"  I  am  neither  very  wise,  nor  very  strong, 
mother.  Some  things  look  dark  to  me,  and  some 
things  I  have  not  yet  gained  strength  to  bear. 
But  wisdom  and  strength  vtill  both  come,  I  trust, 
in  their  own  good  time.  I  pray  fur  them  daily." 

"  Every  new  sphere  of  life  brings  a  new  ex 
perience,"  s»id  Mrs.  Enfield,  "  and,  in  most  cases, 
new  trials.  The  change  from  maidenhood  to  wife- 
hood  rarely,  if  ever,  takes  place  without  some 
jarring  in  the  life-machinery,  lint,  if  love  be  in 
the  heart,  all  the  new  movements  will  soon  acquire 
the  most  perfect  accord.  Brides'  tears  water  the 
garden  of  love." 

"  It  may  be  so,  mother.  But  do  they  not, 
sometimes,  give  fresh  life  to  weeds  as  well  as 
flowers?" 

"  There  should  be  no  weeds  in  love's  garden." 
was  the  smiling  response 


THE  NON- ARRIVAL.  137 

rt  Then  it  must  not  be  planted  in  a  human 
heart."  Mrs.  Hardy  spoke  in  sober  earnest. 

"  You  may  be  right,  my  child,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Enfield  in  a  graver  voice.  "  Weeds  will  spring 
up  in  the  human  soul,  as  well  as  goodly  plants. 
Be  it  our  task  to  uproot  the  one,  and  cultivate 
the  other.  And  now,  dear,  let  us  change  the 
subject.  How  is  my  young  housekeeper  getting 
en  in  her  new  establishment  ?  Everything  looks 
well,  as  far  as  I  have  seen.  You  are  doing 
venders." 

"  Don't  praise  too  early,  my  good  mamma. 
Everything  is  new,  and  in  order.  Wait  a  few 
months,  and  then  see  how  mv  housekeeping  will 
speak  fur  itself.  I  have  some  doubt  in  regard  to 
the  heartiness  of  the  commendation  you  will  then 
give." 

A  lighter  and  more  cheerful  tone  of  feeling 
now  prevailed ;  and  the  afternoon  passed  so  plea 
santly  to  Mrs.  Hardy,  that  she  almost  wondered 
at  it,  considering  the  unhappy  state  of  affairs 
between  her  husband  and  herself. 

At  the  usual  hour,  Mr.  Hardy  returned  home, 
and  met  his  wife  and  mother-in-law  in  such  a 
bland,  frank,  and  gladsome  way,  that  Mrs.  Hardy 
felt  her  heart  grow  warmer  in  the  sunshine  of  his 
presence.  Mr.  Enfield  came  in  soon  afterwards ; 
and  Mr.  Hardy,  grasping  his  hand  with  impres 
sive  cordiality,  said  in  a  familiar  off-hand  way — 


138  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  You    didn't    succeed    in    your    design  last 


evening." 


"  What  design  ??'  was  naturally  inquired. 

"  That  of  making  our  home-light  dim,  in  order 
that  yuur's  might  burn  the  brighter !  Were  you 
very  much  disappointed  at  not  seeing  us  ?" 

"  Yes;  why  didn't  you  come  down?" 

"  Home  was  too  pleasant,  and  its  magnetism 
too  strong.  Now,  do  you  wish  to  know  what 
I  thought  of  your  invitation  to  spend  the  even 
ing?" 

"  W'hat  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"  That  you  were  a  very  selfish  man.'* 

"  How  so  ?" 

"  To  covet  my  property  ! " 

"  Your  property  ?" 

"My  enjoyment,  then!  For  nearly  twenty 
years,  the  presence  of  your  daughter  has  daily 
been  like  a  broad  beam  of  sunshine  in  your  dwell 
ing.  She  has  set  there,  and  risen  in  the  fair 
horizon  of  rny  home.  And  scarcely  has  the  light 
begun  to  shine,  ere  you  seek  to  remove  it,  that  it 
may  fall  upon  you  again." 

"  And  do  you  greatly  wonder,  that  in  darkness 
I  pine  for  the  vanished  light,  or  covet  a  few 
fleeting  rays?"  said  Mr.  Enfield,  smiling,  yet 
serious. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  wonder.  Nor  should 
you  be  astonished  if  I  feel  too  happy  in  these 


THE   NON-ARRIVAL.  .       .   139 

golden  beams  to  wish  them  withdrawn  for  an 
instant." 

"  We  did  not  ask  you  to  let  us  remove  the  light 
from  your  candlestick ;  we  only  desired  you  to 
come  to  us  in  the  light,  and  let  us  share  for  a 
brief  season  the  mutual  blessing.  But  like  most 
young  husbands,  I  see  you  are  selfish,  and  too 
happy  in  your  wedded  life,  to  be  able  to  sympa 
thize  with  the  father  and  mother.  I  would  not 
complain  of  this.  Jane  is  the  apple  of  our  eyes. 
Make  her  happy,  and  we  shall  be  happy.  If  you 
will  not  come  to  us,  we  will  come  to  you.  All 
the  green  things  in  our  hearts  would  blanch  to  a 
sickly  hue,  if  the  radiant  light  of  her  presence 
were  wholly  remo*  ed." 

"  If  her  life  is  not  crowned  with  happiness," 
said  Mr.  Hardy  emphatically,  "  the  fault  shall 
not  be  mine."  And  he  glanced  with  a  tender 
expression  tov/ards  his  young  wife,  who  caught 
the  look  and  treasured  it  like  a  precious  thing  in 
her  heart. 

Very  kind,  gentle,  and  considerate  towards  his 
wife  was  Mr.  Hardy  during  the  whole  evening ; 
and  to  the  parents  he  was  unusually  attentive. 
Not  a  shadow  flitted  over  his  open,  manly  coun 
tenance;  not  a  tone  escaped  him  that  left  upon 
any  one  a  depressing  influence.  His  wife  looked 
at  him  at  times  in  wonder,  as  sober  memory  re 
called  the  incidents  of  the  day.  She  had  no/ 


140  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

inquired  the  reason  of  his  failure  to  return  at 
(turner- time,  and  he  had  made  no  allusion  to  the 
fact.  Every  time  she  thought  of  this  her  spirits 
sank,  and  her  heart  trembled.  But  with  all  the 
force  of  will  that  she  could  command,  did  she 
push  aside  unpleasant  recollections  of  the  past, 
and  seek  to  rest  in  the  more  genial  present. 

As  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enfield  walked  home  that 
night,  the  former  said — 

,"  Things  look  brighter  and  more  hopeful. 
There  is  something  exceedingly  agreeable  about 
Mr.  Hardy.  I  particularly  like  his  kind,  consi 
derate  manner  towards  Jane. .  He  seemed  very  de 
sirous  to  make  her  feel  happy.  And  yet,  from  some 
cause  or  other,  she  was  not  altogether  at  ease." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  remarked  Mrs.  Enfield,  "  that 
she  expects  too  much  from  her  husband." 

"  An  error  into  which  most  young  wives  fall. 
But  time  will  correct  this.  I  cannot  say  that  Mr. 
Hardy  is  my  choice  for  our  daughter's  husband.  I 
think  he  lacks  refinement  of  feeling,  and  delicacy 
of  perception.  Still,  he  is  a  man  of  strong  com 
mon  sense,  and  sterling  manly  qualities." 

"  And,  above  all,  a  home-loving  man." 

"  One  of  the  chief  essentials  of  domestic  happi 
ness.  Jane  might  have  done  a  great  deal  worse." 

"  Very  true,"  answered  Mrs.  Enfield.  "  We 
have  cause  for  thankfulness  that  she  has  done  so 
well.  I  talked  to  her  very  seriously  about  her 


THE   NON-ARRIVAL.  141 

state  of  mind  this  afternoon.  She  has  been 
making  herself  unhappy,  I  find,  because  Mr. 
Hardy  preferred  staying  at  home  to  coming  down 
to  our  house  last  evening." 

"  He  might  have  gratified  her ;  I  don't  like  to 
see  young  husbands  putting  on  the  selfish  quite 
so  soon.  It  comes  early  enough  after  the  honey 
moon,  in  all  cases." 

"  I  think  there  is  some  excuse  for  him,  con 
sidering  his  peculiar  character  and  feelings.  He 
had  set  his  heart  upon  a  home,  you  know  ;  and 
gained  it  through  slight  opposition.  Company 
intruded  upon  his  first  domestic  evening,  and  we 
asked  him  to  spend  with  us  the  hours  of  the 
second.  We  were,  perhaps,  a  little  thoughtless ; 
and  should  not  wonder  at  his  resistance.  He 
wanted  to  enjoy  the  quiet  of  his  own  dwelling." 

"  You  are  no  doubt  right,"  said  Mr.  Enfield. 
"  I  only  desire  their  happiness.  God  grant  them 
blessings  in  full  measure." 

The  face  of  Mr.  Hardy  as  he  parted  with  Mr 
and  Mrs.  Enfield  at  the  door  was  full  of  smiles, 
and  his  voice  as  bland  as  summer.  His  wife 
stood  by  his  side,  and,  as  he  turned  from  the  door, 
after  bidding  them  good  night,  she  put  her  hand 
within  his  arm,  and  drew  close  to  him.  They 
walked  along  the  passage,  and  ascended  the  stairs 
to  the  sitting-room,  in  silence.  As  they  came 
into  the  stronger  light,  Mrs.  Hardy  looked  up 
>9 


142  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

into  his  face,  with  a  loving  word  just  ready  to 
leap  from  her  tongue.  She  forced  back  all  re 
membrance  of  the  day's  sad  trials  ;  and  cared  now 
only  for  the  affectionate  smiles  of  her  husband, 
in  the  warmth  of  which  she  had  passed  the  even 
ing.  A  single  glance  caused  her  to  recede  a  pace, 
and  sent  the  bounding  life-blood  back  upon  her 
heart.  His  eyes  were  stern  and  cold;  his  brow 
disfigured  by  a  frown ;  his  lips  just  parting  with 
an  angry  curl. 

"  Did  you  think  I  could  forget  ?"  He  spuke 
harshly.  "  John  Hardy  never  forgets  !" 

The  stricken  young  wife  staggered  backward  to 
a  chair,  and  sank  down  upon  it,  weak  as  a  little 
child. 

"  John  Hardy  never  forgets."  He  repeated 
the  words  in  a  slower  and  more  emphatic  voice. 
"  Such  things  are  not  to  be  forgotten.  It  is  no 
light  thing  to  darken  with  clouds  and  vapours  the 
clear  sky  of  a  man's  home — to  rob  him  of  the 
highest  earthly  good — to  assail  him  with  rebuking 
words.  And  then,  forsooth,  to  expect  oblivion  ou 
his  part !  There  may  be  men  who  will  tamely 
bear  all  this  ;  but  John  Hardy  is  not  one  of  them. 
He  can  be  gentle  as  an  infant,  if  met  by  loving 
acquiescence  ;  but  is  hard  as  the  nether  millstone 
under  opposition ;  and,  as  1  have  said  before,  the 
sooner  you  comprehend  this,  the  better  it  will  be 
for  both  of  us  " 


THE   NON-ARRIVAL.  143 

For  a  little  while,  surprise,  grief  terror,  alike 
tended  to  render  Jane  Hardy  utterly  speechless 
her  husband  stood  ereet,  gazing  down  upon  her 
crouching  form.  Then  repressing,  with  some  effort, 
his  inclination  to  give  utterance  to  yet  more  cut 
ting  words,  he  turned  away;  and  seating  himself  hy 
a  centre-table,  on  which  the  gas-light  was  falling, 
took  up  a  book,  and  attempted  to  get  absorbed  in 
its  contents.  He  read  on  for  a  page  or  two,  with 
only  a  dim  comprehension  of  the  subject,  his 
thoughts  really  upon  his  wife,  expectation  looking 
each  moment  for  some  sign  of  feeling  from  her. 
But  she  remained  silent  and  motionless.  Five 
or  ten  minutes  afterwards,  he  looked  up  again, 
to  see  if  he  could  detect  what  he  could  regard  as 
some  sign  of  conscious  endurance — some  giving 
way  of  the  statue-like  position.  But  the  repose 
of  that  slender  form  was  complete — almost  death 
like. 

He  now  arose,  and  with  a  firm  step  went  from 
the  sitting-room  to  the  bed-room.  Here  he  re 
mained  for  nearly  ten  minutes,  momently  in  ex 
pectation  of  seeing  his  wife  enter,  or  hearing  her 
footsteps.  But  he  waited  in  vain. 

He  was  perplexed  and  troubled.  Did  he  repent 
and  reproach  himself  for  his  harsh,  cruel  conduct 
towards  his  young  wife, — as  he  sat  looking  with 
troubled  feelings,  in  that  long  silence,  upon  hex 
pale,  suffering  countenance  ?  Did  the  scales  fall 


144  THE   WITHERED  HEART. 

from  his  eyes?  Was  he  able  to  see  the  truth 
even  at  a  distance  ?  No  !  no !  John  Hardy  was 
a  man  always  "  right  with  himself!"  He  took 
time  to  consider;  and  his  conclusions  were  gene 
rally  life-long  convictions.  He  reasoned  out  his 
propositions,  and  the  result  was  a  law.  After 
this,  he  could  not  but  remain  unchangeable.  No, 
he  did  not  repent,  for  he  saw  no  cause  for  repent 
ance.  What  had  he  done  ?  Could  any  one,  even 
his  unhappy  wife,  point  to  a  single  act  that  was 
wrong  in  itself?  He  had  only  reacted  upon  her 
unreasonable  action.  He  had  simply  stood  still, 
refusing  to  be  swept  aside  by  the  waves  of  a 
woman's  impulses,  as  a  thing  of  no  consideration. 
If  she  were  hurt  in  the  collision,  he  was  in  no 
respect  to  blame. 

"No,  no — John  Hardy  is  not  responsible:" 
thus  he  talked  with  himself.  "  John  Hardy  is  a 
man,  and  knows  a  man's  rights  and  duties.  He 
will  never  give  up  the  one,  nor  shrink  from  the 
other.  John  Hardy  is  neither  unjust,  nor  un 
reasonable.  On  this  issue  he  will  defy  the 
world." 

And  fortifying  himself  in  this  self-complacent 
notion,  he  resolved  to  let  his  wife  wear  herself  out 
by  her  own  "  whims,"  as  long  as  she  might  please. 
If  she  chose  to  be  moody,  he  would  not  trouble 
himself  at  her  silence.  She  could  not  fail  to  be 
unhappy,  while  the  conversation  was  unrenewed 


THE  NON-AKRITAL.  145 

.nit  the  fault  was  her's,  not  his  !     Tie  had  spoken 
last  ;  and  he  would  patiently  await  her  answer. 

To  the  sitting-room  he  again  directed  his  steps, 
and  there  he  acted  out  the  determination  lie  had 
thus  formed.  But  his  silence  was  as  unsuccessful 
as  had  been  his  words.  Midnight  came,  and  not 
a  syllable  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  either.  It 
was  more  than  time  to  seek  their  nightly  repose 
To  light  the  candle,  and  place  it  in  his  wife's 
hand,  was  the  only  signal  whereby  he  deigned  W 
intimate  his  will. 


CHAPTER  XT. 

again. 

"  Henceforth  be  warn'd ;  and  know  that  Pride, 
Howe'er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty, 
Is  littleness." — WOKDSWOBTH. 

WHEN  Mr.  Hardy  awoke  the  next  morning,  he 
discovered  that  Jane  had  already  left  her  place  by 
his  side.  He  raised  himself  on  his  arm,  and 
looked  round  the  room,  listening  as  he  did  so ; 
but  he  neither  saw  her  form,  nor  heard  any  move 
ment  in  the  adjoining  chamber. 

Rising  and  dressing  himself  quickly,  under  an 
oppressive  sense  of  evil,  he  went  hastily  from  the 
bed-room  to  the  parlour,  where,  to  his  relief,  he 
found  his  wife  engaged  in  setting  things  to  rights. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  him  as  he  entered, 
and  gave  him  a  quiet  glance  of  almost  indifferent 
recognition. 

"  Good  morning !"  he  said. 

"  Good  morning !"  How  like  the  passioiiless 
echo  of  his  own  voice  did  her  responsive  greeting 
sound  iu  his  ears.  John  Hardy  was  not  the  man 


ABSENT    AGATW.  147 

to  humour  or  solicit !  No,  no.  He  was  made  of 
different  stuff  from  ordinary  men. 

"Game  to  the  last!"  This  was  the  coarse, 
half  contemptuous,  half  angry  mental  ejaculation 
of  the  perfect  model  of  a  man !  "  Game  to  the 
last !  Well,  be  it  so !  There  is  one  woman  in  the 
world  who  will  have  to  bend  or  break." 

Turning  from  the  apartment,  he  went  back  to 
his  dressing-room,  to  complete  his  toilette,  and 
did  not  come  down  again,  until  the  bell  rang  for 
breakfast.  He  hastened  to  the  dining-room,  and 
found  his  wife  already  at  the  table. 

Looking  at  her  now  more  intently,  he  noticed 
an  expression  never  before  seen  on  her  counte 
nance  ;  and  one,  to  the  interpretation  of  which, 
no  experience  he  had  yet  attained  in  the  observa 
tion  of  mental  workings  gave  any  clue.  He  did 
not  repeat  his  good-morning,  and  she  made  no 
remark.  Her  manner,  he  noticed,  was  quiet  and 
very  even.  There  was  not  the  smallest  evidence 
of  any  smouldering  excitement  beneath  her  calm 
exterior.  Her  eyes,  usually  so  bright  as  to  con 
stitute  a  marked  feature  of  her  countenance,  had 
partially  lost  their  fire,  and  the  soul  did  not  seem 
to  look  out  of  them  upon  the  world  of  visible 
things  with  any  degree  of  interest.  She  poured 
out  his  coffee,  and  helped  him  to  one  thing  after 
another,  with  movements  more  like  those  of  JUi 
automaton  than  of  a  living  being. 


148  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  something,  Jane  T1  asked 
Mr.  Hardy,  breaking  through  the  ice  of  silence 
and  reserve. 

"  I  have  no  appetite  now.''  She  answered  in  a 
voice  that  betrayed  not  the  smallest  sign  of  feeling 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?" 

"  I  feel  very  well."  There  was  not  the  slightest 
change  in  tone  or  manner.  Mr.  Hardy  g;ized 
steadily  into  her  face,  but  she  did  not  give  back  a 
single  glance.  Her  eyes  were  not  averted,  nor 
her  face  turned  aside.  She  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  her  husband ;  but  it  was  plain  that  his  form 
made  no  distinct  image  of  itself  on  the  retina. 

As  Mr.  Hardy  could  see  no  possible  connexion 
between  anything  that  he  had  done,  and  the 
existence  of  a  state  of  mind  necessary  to  produce 
the  external  demeanour  manifested  by  his  wife, 
he  felt  wholly  justified  in  the  conclusion,  that 
only  one-half  of  all  her  apparen*  suffering  was 
real,  and  that  this  real  suffering  was  but  the 
writhing  of  pride  and  disappointed  self-will.  So 
there  was  not  found  in  his  heart  the  first  motion 
towards  a  relenting  spirit.  He  pitied  her  weak 
ness  and  her  suffering ;  but  his  mind  was  clear  as 
to  his  own  duty  in  the  case.  For  him  to  yield 
was  impossible. 

He  sipped  his  coffee  and  tried  to  eat,  but  the 
motionless  form  of  his  wife,  sitting  directly  before 
him,  soon  had  the  effect  of  taking  away  all  appe- 


ABSENT   AGAIN.  149 

hte.  Several  times  cutting  words  formed  them 
selves  into  sentences  on  his  tongue,  and  were  kept 
back  from  utterance  only  through  the  prudent 
restraint  of  sober  second  thought.  At  last  he  arose 
from  the  table,  and  was  leaving  the  room  without 
a  word,  when  his  wife  calledto  him  by  name — 

"  John."  The  tone  was  free  from  impulse,  as 
the  gentlest  summer-breeze. 

Mr.  Hardy  paused,  and  turned  towards  his 
wife. 

"  Shall  you  he  home  at  dinner-time  ?"  There 
was  neither  weakness  nor  passion  in  her  voice. 

"'  Yes,  if  you  will  promise  me  one  thing." 

"  Name  it."  Still  her  tones  were  surprisingly 
«ven. 

"  To  meet  your  husband  with  a  smiling  coun 
tenance." 

"  I  am  not  well  skilled  at  dissembling,  John," 
was  the  reply,  calmly  :;nd  coldly  made.  "  If  there 
is  darkness  in  my  heart  there  cannot  be  light  on 
my  countenance." 

She  had  risen  from  her  place  at  the  table,  and 
now  she  moved  to  her  husband's  side,  and  passed 
with  him  from  the  room,  walking  on  with  a  firm 
step. 

"  I  give  yon  credit  for  being  an  arch-dissem 
bler,"  was  his  unfeeling  answer. 

"  Time  will  probably  correct  your  error.*'  Mrs, 
Hardy  said  no  more  than  this. 


150  THE    WITHERED   HEART. 

''You  are  very  calm,  very  cool,  very  self-pos 
sessed  !"  There  was  a  slight  sneer  in  the  voice. 
No  response  was  made,  and  there  followed  a  brief 
silence.  Mr.  Hardy  took  up  his  hat,  and  moved 
onwards. 

"  John." 

There  was  a  power  in  that  passionless  tone  that 
instantly  arrested  his  steps.  He  turned  partly 
round. 

"  Shall  you  be  home  at  dinner-time  ?" 

"  I  rhink  not." 

"  Say  you  will,  or  you  will  not.  Uncertainty 
disturbs  the  mind,  and  suspense  is  painful." 

"  I  will  not."  Mr.  Hardy's  face  flushed  to  the 
temples,  and  his  voice  had  in  it  a  sharp  tone  of 
anger.  He  stood,  almost  glaring  at  his  wife. 
But  she,  evincing  no  emotion,  said,  "  Very  well  ;'* 
and  receding  a  pace  or  two,  as  if  pushed  back  by 
an  invisible  hand,  turned  slowly  around,  and 
going  with  noiseless  footsteps  up  the  stairs, 
vanished  like  a  spirit  from  his  sight. 

Not  long  afterwards  she  rang  the  bell,  and  said 
to  tne  servant — 

"  Mr.  Hardy  is  not  coming  home  to  dinner;  so 
you  can  tell  the  cook  not  to  make  any -preparation 
for  him.  If  any  one  calls  and  asks  fur  me,  say 
that  I  am  not  well,  and  caiinot  be  seen.  You  may 
bring  me  a  cup  of  tea  about  twelve  or  one 
o'clock." 


ABSENT   AGAIN.  151 

After  sitting  in  a  dreamy  attitude  for  a  con 
siderable  time,  she  went  into  her  room,  laid  her 
self  down,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  hid  her  face  in  a 
pillow.  As  moveless  as  a  sleeper  she  remained, 
until  disturbed  by  the  knock  of  the  servant,  who 
came  with  the  tea  she  had  directed  him  to  bring. 
She  received  through  the  partly  opened  door  the 
small  tray,  on  which  were  tea,  toast,  and  a  delicate 
piece  of  boiled  fowl ;  and  said — 

"  I  Avill  ring  for  you,  when  I  wish  the  tray 
removed." 

In  about  twenty  minutes  the  bell  was  rung, 
and  the  tray  passed  to  the  servant.  There  was 
scarcely  a  visible  diminution  in  the  quantity  of 
food  it  had  at  first  contained. 

When  Mr.  Hardy  came  home  a  little  before 
nightfall,  he  found  his  wife  sitting  in  the  parlour. 
She  had  dressed  herself  with  exquisite  taste,  and, 
though  pale,  and  with  an  expression  of  sadness  on 
her  young  face,  looked  as  beautiful  in  his  eyes  as 
she  had  ever  appeared.  All  day  long  he  had  been 
writing  bitter  things  against  her,  and  meditating 
new  schemes  of  torture  for  breaking  down  her 
indomitable  will,  that  seemed  to  grow  stronger 
under  every  measure  of  opposition  ;  and  he  had 
returned  to  the  scene  of  contest  with  renewed 
strength.  The  sight  of  her  changed,  wan  face, 
and  slender  form — an  image  of  frailty,  not  enclur- 
race,  rebuked  his  harsh  purpose,  and  softened  him 


THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

towards  her.  As  she  rose  to  meet  him,  and  madfc 
a  feeble  effort  to  smile,  he  said,  kindly — 

'•"  I  hope  you  feel  better  this  evening,  dear  ?" 

"  My  head  does  not  ache  so  intensely  "  she 
it-plied. 

"Has  it  ached  all  day?" 

"  Yes.  It  began  soon  after  I  arose  this  morning, 
*nd  the  pain  has  pierced  my  temples  as  if  an  arrow 
were  imbedded  in  it." 

"It  does  not  ache  so  much  now?"  said  Mr. 
Hardy,  in  a  kind,  inquiring  voice. 

"  No ;  the  pain  is  gradually  subsiding." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  been  ill  all  day." 

It  was  on  his  lips  to  remark  farther,  that,  had 
he  known  she  was  ill,  he  would  not  have  re 
mained  away  until  evening.  But  he  withheld  this 
little  concession,  lest  she  might  regard  it  as  indi 
cative  of  a  yielding  temper,  and  find  in  it  a  warrant 
for  longer  resistance. 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  make  any  response;  and 
her  husband  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind  tha* 
encouraged  pleasant  conversation.  Almost  ol 
necessity,  therefore,  reserve,  silence,  and  a  cold 
demeanour  supervened. 

There  was  one  thing  about  his  wife  which  more 
than  annoyed  Mr.  Hardy.  It  troubled  him.  This 
was  her  passionless  exterior ;  the  same  impene- 
trableness  that  he  failed  to  break  through  in  the 
morning,  although  he  had  thrust  against  it 


ABSENT   AGAIN.  153 

sharply.  At  the  tea-table  he  often  and  intently 
looked  into  her  calm  face,  and  absent  dreamy 
eyes,  seeking  to  penetrate  their  mystery;  but  the 
riddle  remained  unread.  Strongly  as  he  resisted 
it,  (he  conviction  that  a  change,  beyond  the  con 
trol  of  her  will,  had  taken  place  in  the  character 
of  her  feelings,  steadily  forced  itself  upon  him. 
She  seemed  a  creature  void  of  emotion ;  a  mere 
breathing,  moving  effigy  of  the  lovely  being  he 
had,  a  little  while  before,  clasped  to  his  bosom 
with  infinite  joy. 

Ah,  if  John  Hardy's  perceptions  had  been 
somewhat  clearer — if  he  had  possessed  the  faculty 
of  thinking  out  of  himself — if  he  could  have  com 
prehended  what  really  existed  in  the  mind  of  his 
wife, — all  might  not  have  been  lost.  Loving 
consideration,  manifested  in  true  loving  acts — 
words  and  tones,  with  a  heart  of  manly  tender 
ness  in  them, — these  would,  in  time,  have  melted 
away  the  icy  coldness  which  nothing  else  could 
remove. 

But  alas  for  John  Hardy,  and  his  beautiful, 
true-hearted,  but  wronged  and  suffering  wife! 
The  defect  in  his  character  was  radical.  To  have 
done  this,  he  must  have  ceased  to  be  the  John 
Hardy  whose  name  he  was  so  fond  of  repeating 
with  pride  and  pleasure. 

After  tea — the  meal  had  been  taken  in  silence 
— they  went  to  the  sitting-room,  walking  side  by 
•  I 


154  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

side,  but  not  arm  in  arm,  each  feeling  repelled 
rather  than  attracted. 

"  I  have  an  engagement  this  evening,'*  said 
Mr.  Hardy, 

"  Have  you  ?  " 

This  was  all  the  response  made  by  his  wife. 
She  evinced  neither  surprise  nor  regret. 

"  Yes,  and  I  may  not  be  home  till  late." 

Mr.  Hardy  fully  expected  that  this  would  touch 
the  right  chord.  But  he  was  mistaken.  His  wife 
remained  impassive.  There  was  no  warmer  flush 
on  her  cheeks ;  no  lighting  up  of  her  calm  eyes ; 
no  single  word  of  remonstrance  or  acquiescence. 
He  stood,  for  a  little  Avhile, half  irresolute,  puzzled, 
and  disappointed 

'•  A.S  you  are  not  well,  you  had  better  not  sit  up 
for  me.  I  may  be  out  till  twelve  o'clock." 

Mrs.  Hardy  looked  at  him  steadily,  but  without 
the  slightest  change  of  countenance. 

"  Did  you  hear  what  I  said  ? "  Mr.  Hardy  was 
disturbed,  and  he  showed  the  weakness. 

"Certainly.  Why  not?"  How  icy  were  both 
tone  and  manner. 

"  Good  evening!"  The  young  husband  turned 
away  abruptly. 

It  was,  as  he  nad  intimated,  nearly  twelve 
o'clock  when  he  returned.  The  last  hoxir,  for  the 
sake  of  keeping  his  word,  had  been  spent  in  n 
wearisome  walk  up  and  down  many  streets.  H" 


ABSENT   AGAIN.  155 

did  not  come  in,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  the  best 
possible  humour  with  either  himself  or  his  wife. 
Not  a  little  to  his  surprise,  he  found  her  almost 
in  the  very  place  where  he  had  left  her  sitting 
nearly  five  hours  before.  She  was  engaged  on  a 
fine  piece  of  needlework. 

"  Why,  Jane  ! "  he  said  fretfully;  "  I  supposed 
you  were  asleep  hours  ago ! " 

"  You  were  mistaken.     I  have  not  felt  sleepy." 

"  Come,"  said  Mr.  Hardy;  "it  is  nearly  twelve 
o'clock." 

"  I  will  follow  you  presently." 

"  Come  now." 

"  I  have  waited  your  time,  John ;  and  now  you 
will  have  to  wait  mine." 

There  was  no  quicker  movement  of  the  voice — 
no  sign  of  feeling — 110  averting  of  the  counte 
nance. 

Mr.  Hardy  turned  away  quickly,  and  Avent  to 
the  bed-room.  It  was  nearly  a  whole  hour  before  . 
Mrs.  Hardy  followed  him.  She  found  her  hus 
band  asleep,  and  was  careful  not  to  awaken  him. 
Silently  she  moved  about  the  room,  and  silently 
laid  herself  upon  the  bed.  Wearied  nature  soon 
brought  to  her  sad  spirit  a  sweet  oblivion,  looking 
up  all  her  senses  until  the  advent  of  another  day. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

0f  l|re  |imtcp00it. 

"  [All]  artery,  coarse,  and  harsh  expression 
Shows  love  to  be  a  mere  profession  ; 
1'roves  that  the  heart  is  none  of  liis. 
Or  soon  expels  him  if  it  is." — COWPEE. 

FROM  this  time  forth,  daily  and  weekly,  did  Mr. 
Hardy  look  for  some  change  in  his  wife's  frigid 
exterior ;  but  he  looked  in  vain.  She  was  calm, 
cold,  dreamy,  passionless, — at  least  to  him.  Ever 
prompt  in  all  her  household  duties,  she  left  no 
room  whatever  for  blame ;  and  when  his  fretted 
self-will  overleaped  itself  into  impatience,  and 
when  in  his  blindness  he  thrust  sharply  at  her 
feelings,  the  point  of  his  weapon  seemed  instantly 
to  lose  its  temper,  for  it  made  no  perceptible 
wound.  When  her  parents  or  friends  came  to  see 
them,  she  put  on  a  different  and  warmer  exterior, 
though  not  the  bright  one  of  old  ;  and  when  she 
went  abroad  into  company,  she  appeared  to  take 
a  quiet  interest  in  persons  and  things,  though  not 
so  much  so  as  in  by-gone  times.  lint,  upon  bet 
husband,  she  never  smiled,  at  home  or  abroad 


END   OF    THE   HONEYMOON.  157 

To  him,  she  was  always  the  samp,  at  all  times, 
under  all  circumstances,  and  in  all  places. 

And  so  the  honeymoon,  and  many  other  moons, 
passed.  The  new  life,  to  which  both  had  looked 
as  full  of  the  heart's  deepest  joy — as  warm  with 
golden  sunshine,  and  rich  in  all  delights — gave 
no  more  beauty  nor  fragrance  than  an  arctic 
summer. 

Around  the  word  "  home"  had  clustered,  in 
Mr.  Hardy's  mind,  a  world  of  felicities.  It  had 
involved  his  highest  earthly  ideal.  Wife,  children, 
home !  How  often  had  these  words  found  an 
utterance  in  his  heart,  and  an  echo  on  his  lips. 
Possessing  these,  he  felt  that  he  could  defy  the 
Avorld.  But  the  home  which  had  been  gained  by  Mr. 
Hardy, under  the  too  eager  impulses  of  a  strong  self- 
will,  failed  even  from  the  beginning  to  realize  the 
high  ideal  he  had  so  fondly  cherished.  The  sun  he 
had  commanded  to  shine,  and  to  fill  every  chamber 
of  his  dwelling  with  light  and  warmth,  failed  to  do 
his  bidding;  and  the  hand  he  had  swept  almost 
imperiously  across  the  heavens,  only  disturbed  the 
atmosphere,  and  made  the  clouds  thicker  and. 
darker,  instead  of  removing  them.  He  had  caged 
a  beautiful  singing  bird,  but  its  song  ceased  from 
the  moment  the  gilded  doors  of  its  prison  were 
closed. 

Under  the  effort  to  be  cheerful,  and  to  make  her 
husband's  home  all  that  he  could  desire,  Mrs. 


158  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

Hardy,  during  the  early  periods  of  their  new  life, 
still  maintained  a  calm  and  quiet  exterior,  and 
ministered  in  all  ways  possible  to  his  comfort. 
But  how  poor  a  substitute  was  duty  for  love ! 
there  was  no  heart  in  it  all. 

It  was  soon  whispered  about,  that  the  young 
wife  was  not  happy.  Everybody  was  surprised, 
and  inquiries  as  to  the  cause  passed  from  lip  to 
lip.  All  kinds  of  suggestions  were  made;  and 
'.his  approximation  to  the  truth  was  reached, — 
that  "  She  did  not  want  to  begin  housekeeping !" 

Of  course,  the  general  sentiment  was  against 
her.  She  was  called  selfish,  indolent,  unreason 
able — not  worthy  of  so  good  a  partner.  Wives 
blamed,  and  ambitious  maidens  envied  her;  while 
her  husband  received  a  world  of  sympathy. 

As  for  Mr.  Hardy — the  man  whose  resolute 
purposes  had,  hitherto,  overridden  all  that  came 
between  himself  and  a  cherished  end, — he  found, 
in  the  growing  impassiveness  of  his  wife,  whom 
even  sharp  words  could  not  spur  into  reaction,  a 
new  barrier,  the  strongest  and  strangest  which  had 
yet  upreared  itself  in  his  path.  He  could  meet 
and  overcome  circumstances,  bending  them  to  his 
will ;  but,  when  he  came  to  the  heart  of  a  woman, 
and  sought  almost  impiously  to  regulate  its  beat, 
and  govern  its  impulses,  he  found  the  task  alto 
gether  the  most  difficult  he  had  ever  assumed. 
But  still  he  saw  no  cause  to  change  his  estimate 


END   OF   THE   HONEYMOON.  159 

of  his  wife's  character.  To  him,  the  belief  that 
she  was  but  struggling  on  for  the  victory,  was  as 
fixed  as  an  axiom ;  and,  while  he  believed  this, 
to  yield  and  conciliate  was  impossible.  "  Break 
or  bend,"  was  still  his  stern  motto  in  the  case. 
But  how  to  break,  had  become  the  puzzling  ques 
tion.  All  at  once  the  writhing  heart  had  ceased 
to  struggle  in  his  grasp.  Again  and  again  the 
iron  fingers  contracted  suddenly,  or  in  a  steadily 
accumulating  pressure,  until  all  the  man's  vigorous 
strength,  increased  by  passion,  was  applied  even 
to  the  point  of  exhaustion.  And  yet,  not  the 
feeblest  quiver  of  pain  was  observable. 

"  Is  the  woman  alive  or  dead ! "  he  would  some 
times  exclaim  after  one  of  these  cruel  efforts  to 
find  the  region  of  vitality. 

A  few  months  more,  and  Mrs.  Hardy's  states  of 
feeling  became  singularly  variable.  She  would 
pass  hours,  and  sometimes  almost  days,  weeping 
and  grieving  like  a  disappointed  child, — answer 
ing  no  inquiries,  and  taking  no  food.  Then  she 
would  fall  into  the  saddest  abstraction,  which 
nothing  could  overcome.  Afterwards  would  come 
A  quiet  devotion  to  the  duties  of  her  household, 
Tin ough  all  these  varying  aspects  of  mind,  Mr. 
Hardy  was  unchanged  in  his  interpretation  of 
Uicir  meaning;  the  pride  of  manhood,  as  he  call*  <i 
it,  was  too  strong  to  permit  of  any  yielding,  o» 
humouring  on  his  part. 


160  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"The  bird  is  caged,"- -this  was  one  of  his 
mentally  spoken 'figures  of  speech, — "and  all  heat 
ing  against  the  bars  is  vain.  The  bruised  wings 
must  fold  themselves  in  weakness  or  acquiescence. 
There  is  no  other  hope." 

Mr.  Hardy,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  had 
the  organ  of  language  pretty  largely  developed. 
His  thoughts  were  active,  and  his  tongue  always 
stood  ready  to  give  utterance  to  them.  It  was 
almost  impossible  for  him  to  think  intently  with 
out  talking.  Had  he  been  more  meditative, 
and,  consequently,  more  silent,  opportunity  for  a 
healthier  change  in  his  wife's  feelings  might  have 
been  given.  But  he  was  constantly  thinking 
bitter  things  against  her,  and  as  constantly  saying 
them.  He  believed  that,  as  continual  dropping 
wears  away  a  stone,  a  continual  utterance  of  his 
views  in  regard  to  her  conduct,  would,  in  the  end, 
satisfy  her  that  she  was  understood,  and  that  her 
effort  to  break  him  down  was  hopeless.  From 
milder  forms  of  speech,  his  ingenuity  led  him  on 
to  the  framing  of  bolder  thrusts  and  more  cruel 
accusations 

"  I  thought,'  he  said,  one  day,  "  that  I  was 
.aking  a  dove  to  my  bosom ;  but" — 

He  looked  steadily  at  his  wife,  expecting  some 
flash  of  interest  to  pass  over  her  face.  But  she 
seemed  as  one  who  had  not  heard  him  speak. 

— "  I  was  in  error.'2 


END   OF   THE   HONEYMOON.  161 

He  uttered  these  words  slowly,  still  looking  at 
her  with  a  severe  countenance.  She  gave  buck 
neither  answer  nor  sign. 

— "  A  viper  to  sting  me,  is  a  poor  substitute!" 

It  was  a  very  cruel  speech.  Yet,  for  all  that 
was  visible,  it  did  not  seem  to  penetrate  the  con 
sciousness  of  her  to  whom  it  was  addressed ;  and 
her  husband,  after  he  had  given  forth  the  unmanly 
sentence,  felt  some  relief  in  the  impression  that 
she  had  not  really  comprehended  his  words.  But 
he  was  in  error,  here,  as  in  most  things  that 
related  to  his  wife.  She  had  heard,  and  the 
sentence  was  already  ineffaceably  written  down 
in  her  memory,  among  the  many  cruel  speeches 
uttered  by  him  since  their  marriage. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Enfield  were  both  puzzled  to 
understand  the  true  workings  of  their  daughter's 
mind.  To  them,  she  had  all  at  once  become  re 
served  and  incommunicative.  Deceived,  in  a  mea 
sure,  by  Mr.  Hardy's  bland  speeches,  and  by  his 
uniformly  gen  tie,  yielding,  and  affectionate  manner 
towards  Jane  whenever  they  saw  them  together, 
the  father  and  mother  received  an  impression  that 
their  daughter  was  most  to  blame  for  the  state  of 
affairs  unhappily  existing.  A  single  intimation 
of  this  at  once  changed  her  whole  demeanour 
towards  them.  To  her,  this  was  the  going  out  of 
the  last  earth-light  shining  upon  her  dark,  rough, 
thorny  path.  That  they  should  so  misunderstand 


162  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

her ; — it  was  the  portion  in  her  cup,  bitterest  of  all ! 
From  that  time,  she  was  as  incomprehensible 
to  them  as  to  others,  and  met  any  questions  or 
remonstrances  they  felt  called  upon  to  make,  with 
the  same  coldness  that  marked  her  conduct  to 
wards  her  husband. 

A  woman  of  ordinary  character,  and  less  deli 
cacy  of  feeling,  would,  in  a  short  time,  have  ac 
commodated  herself  to  Mr.  Hardy's  peculiarities, 
and  have  found  ample  compensation  in  the  posi 
tion  acquired  by  the  marriage;  or,  one  of  more 
shrewdness  and  worldliness  would  have  taken 
advantage  of  his  weak  points,  to  bend  him  wholly 
to  her  will ;  for  such  men  can  always  be  governed, 
if  their  wives  know  the  art.  But  Mrs.  Hardy 
was  too  true  a  woman  to  find  an)  compensation 
of  this  sort.  She  loved  unselfishly,  and  her  heart 
asked  as  genuine  a  love  in  return.  Failing  to 
receive  this,  the  light  of  her  life  grew  dim,  and 
the  shadows  of  death  fell  coldly  upon  her  heart. 
Ah !  if  that  foolish  young  husband  could  have 
known  the  value  of  the  jewel  he  was  grinding  to 
powder  under  his  feet — could  have  seen  deep 
enough  into  the  heart  of  his  wife  to  understand 
its  pure,  loving  qualities — could  have  forgotten 
himself  long  enough  to  gain  some  true  perception 
of  her  real  character — what  a  life-joy  might  have 
been  his !  But  he  was  unworthy  to  possess  the 
treasure  he  had  coveted,  and  now  that  it  was  in 


END    OF    THE   HONEYMOON.  163 


his  hand,  its  lustre  had  grown  dim.  Ah  ! 
many  thousands  and  thousands  of  pure,  true, 
loving-hearted  women  are  wedded  by  just  such 
men  as  John  Hardy,  who  vainly  imagine  that  to 
win  is  to  enjoy.  They  mate  too  high,  and  in 
mating  they  wed  misery  instead  of  happiness.  It 
is  not  always  physical  suffering  —  the  sickness  of 
the  frail  body  alone  —  that  whitens  so  many  cheeks, 
and  throws  a  veil  of  sadness  over  so  many  homes. 
No,  no.  The  "  poor  health"  of  wives  has  often 
a  deeper  source  than  friends  and  neighbours 
imagine.  There  is  a  sickness  of  the  soul,  that  saps 
the  life-fountains  more  surely  than  any  bodily 
ailment.  The  heart  needs  sustenance  as  well  as 
the  brain.  Its  aliment  is  love  ;  and,  deprived  of 
this,  will  not  its  pulses  grow  daily  feebler  and 
feebler?  Alas!  this  attempted  mating  of  grosser 
with  finer  natures  —  what  cruel  wrongs  are  born 
in  the  unnatural  union! 

There  was  one  quality  about  Mr.  Hardy,  which, 
under  most  conditions  of  life,  may  almost  be 
classed  with  the  virtues;  —  we  mean,  firmness. 
Phrenologists  would,  doubtless,  have  found  the 
organ  representing  it  of  unusual  size.  This 
quality  gave  great  persistence  to  his  character, 
and  was  one  of  the  secrets  of  his  steadily  advanc 
ing  position  among  his  fellow-men.  He  rarely 
abandoned  a  purpose,  though  it  was  his  custom 
to  gain  his  ends  rather  by  smiling  policy  than 


164  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

frowning  force, — combativeness,  it.  the  tecrmiv  a\ 
sense,  not  being  largely  developed.  There  was 
something,  too,  of  wiliness  about  him,  that  enabled 
him  to  gain  his  ends  without  exciting  opposition 
a; id  to  lead  men,  while  off  their  guard,  to  work 
towards  the  accomplishment  of  his  favourite 
schemes.  Thus,  he  was  a  tyrant,  without  hold 
ness ;  seeking  to  rule,  yet  coveting  the  good 
opinions  of  the  very  men  he  would  bend  to  his 
will.  But  tyrants  of  his  class  usually  lay  aside, 
at  home,  some  of  the  exterior  veils  that  hide  their 
real  character  from  the  eyes  of  men.  Having 
secured  their  wives,  they  set  themselves  at  once  to 
the  work  of  ruling  them.  Pride — or  what  they 
regard  as  manliness — will  not  permit  them  to 
pursue  the  same  course  at  home,  that  is  pursued 
by  them  in  the  world.  No  smooth  policy,  no 
smiling  duplicity,  no  seeming  acquiescence  where 
the  real  purpose  remains  strong  as  ever,  marks 
their  conduct  in  the  family-circle.  There,  the 
uttered  word  becomes  the  changeless  law.  The 
quality  of  persistence,  to  which  we  have  referred, 
strengthened  as  it  was,  in  Mr.  Hardy's  case, 
by  his  deficient  perceptions,  made  the  case  of  his 
unhappy  young  wife  a  hopeless  one.  lie  wa^  not 
able,  Irom  the  peculiar  nature  of  his  iwntal 
organization,  to  see  any  cause  for  her  singular 
state  of  mind,  but  thwarted  self-will.  ?t  waa 
plain  to  him,  that,  having  been  permitted,  in  the 


END   OF   THE   HOHEYMOON.  165 

home  of  her  girlhood,  to  do  pretty  much  as  she 
pleased,  and  to  rule  her  parents  through  appeals 
to  their    partial  love,  she   was    now  seeking    to 
attain  the  same  control  over  her  husband;    and 
that,  having  failed  in  this  from  the  start,  she  was 
using  a  woman's  powerful  weapon  against  him. 
The  very  thought  filled  his  mind  with  anger  to 
wards  the  gentle  one  he  was  wronging  so  deeply ; 
and  he  resolved  that,  come  what  would, -he  must 
be  conqueror  in  the  struggle,  if  the  contest  went 
on  to  the  day  of  death!     Thus  he  closed  his  mind 
to  the  possibility  of  ever  comprehending  her  true 
feelings  ;  and  regarded  every  wail  of  anguish  that 
went  up  from  her  bleeding  heart,  as  the  iron  grasp 
in  which  he  held  it,  grew  daily  tighter  and  tighter, 
as  only  the  mad  cry  of  a  yet  untamed  spirit,  in 
which  the  hope  to  rule  was  still  a  struggling  pas 
sion  !    If  she  bore  up  calmly,  yet  sadly,  seeking 
to  perform  every  external  duty  faithfully  in   the 
sight  of  Heaven,  he  cherished  anger  against  her, 
because  she  was  not  smiling  and  cheerful.     If  she 
sank  down,  as  was  not  unfrequently  the  ease,  into 
impassive,  dark,  and  gloomy  states  of  mind,  re 
fusing  even  a  word  in  answer  to  anything  he  might 
say — remaining    thus,  sometimes,  for    weeks  to 
gether — he   saw    only  a   changing  phase  of  her 
consummate  art.    It  was  fine  acting !    Under  such 
a  discipline,  it  is  no  cause  of  wonder,  that,  in 
many  respects,  the  character  of  Mrs.  Hardy  uudei- 
p'2 


166  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

went  a  change ;  and  that,  even  to  her  parents,  she 
seemed  at  times  to  deport  herself  in  a  strange, 
if  not  unreasonable  manner.  As  for  her  own 
conscious  experiences,  they  were,  as  may  be  sup 
posed,  often  of  the  darkest  character.  There  were 
periods  when  reason  tottered — when  thought  was 
a  blank — when  all  around  her  was  a  bewildering 
maze,  and  she  groped  about  like  a  blind  man  who 
has  lost  his  way. 

How  often,  oh,  how  often !  in  these  hours  of 
midnight-gloom,  when  it  seemed  as  if  the  very 
sun  that  lit  up  the  heaven  of  nature  were  fading, 
did  she  enter  into  her  closet  and  shut  the  door, 
and  pray  unto  Him  who  seeth  in  secret,  beseech 
ing  Him  for  light  to  see  by, — for  strength  to  walk 
the  rugged  path  she  was  treading, — for  a  willing 
heart  to  do  her  duty. 

Sometimes  she  came  from  her  closet,  with  a 
clearer  mind  and  a  stronger  heart;  and  at  other 
times  with  so  crushed  and  hopeless  a  feeling,  that 
her  very  life  seemed  perishing. 

And  so  the  days  went  on,  the  distance  between 
herself,  her  husband,  and  happiness,  growing  evei 
wider  and  wider,  the  future  growing  darker  and 
darker,  and  mocking  hope  flitting  far  in  the  dis 
tance,  as  a  dusky  image,  in  the  form  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

f  ft*  Jfirst-tonr. 

"And  there  she  has  her  young  babe  born, 
And  the  lyon  shall  be  lord  of  a'." 

OLD  SCOTTISH  SONG. 

THE  birth  of  a  daughter  brought  to  Mrs.  Hardy 
the  dawn  of  a  new  day.  But  this  day  set  ere 
long  in  darkness.  Night  followed  quickly  upon 
the  morning.  Mr.  Hardy  had  his  own  views 
about  children,  and  the  little  Helen  was  scarcely 
a  week  old,  before  he  commenced  laying  down  the 
formula  of  her  home-education.  Every  word, 
every  sentence,  every  proposition,  sent  a  chill  to 
the  young  mother's  heart. 

A  year's  close  observation  of  her  husband, 
under  circumstances  largely  advantageous  for  a 
correct  knowledge  of  his  character,  satisfied  her  as 
to  one  thing,  that  he  had  no  tender  feelings  of 
his  own,  and  no  perceptions  of  the  sources  of 
mental  suffering  in  others.  That  her  child  would 
inherit  from  her  a  high  degree  of  sensitiveness  to 
external  impressions,  tending,  most  probably,  to  a 
morbid  development  under  wrong  treatment,  she 


168  THE  WITHERED    HEART. 

felt  certain  ;  and  the  yearning  love,  horn  with  it 
in  the  mother's  heart,  took  up  at  once  its  harden  of 
sorrow  for  her  child; — thus  even  while  she  clasped 
it  in  an  ectasy  of  maternal  joy  to  her  hosom,  she 
prayed  that  it  might  not  long  be  permitted  to  re 
main  away  from  its  hetter  home  among  the  angels. 
The  fears  of  Mrs.  Hardy  were  not  idle ;  and 
well  she  knew  it.  Not  a  month  went  by,  before 
her  husband  commenced  a  meddlesome  interference 
with  her  motherly  duties  ;  objecting  to  this, — pro 
posing  that,— reading  constant  homilies  on  the 
ignorance  displayed  by  most  women  in  regard  to 
physiological  laws, — and  boldly  declaring  that  his 
children  should  not  be  subjected  to  the  murderous 
treatment  by  which  thousands  of  little  innocents 
were  yearly  swept  into  the  grave.  As  before  the 
birth  of  the  babe,  so  after  it,  Mr.  Hardy  did  not 
find  in  his  wife  any  disposition  to  yield  a  ready 
acquiescence  to  his  will.  She  entered  into  no 
contention  with  him,  answered  none  of  his  propo 
sitions,  combated  none  of  bis  theories :  but  went 
on  quietly  to  do  f«>r  her  babe,  what  love,  duty, 
and  the  best  information  she  could  obtain  prompted 
her  to  do.  If  what  he  proposed — which  was  too 
rarely  the  case — agreed  with  her  own  views  of 
right,  the  thing  was  done;  if  it  did  not  agree 
therewith,  it  was  not  done:  and  Mr.  Hardy  talked 
and  scolded  in  vain.  It  was  the  same  in  regard  to 
her  IT  other,  who  under  Mr  Hardy's  plausible 


THE   FIRST-BOEN.  169 

representations,  sometimes  came  over  to  his  side. 
If  Jane  saw  with  them,  well ; — if  not,  she  never 
followed  their  suggestions  or  commands. 

Very  mildly,  though  often  firmly,  did  Mr. 
Hardy  talk  to  his  wife,  when  Mrs.  Enfield  was 
present,  about  her  way  of  taking  care  of  the  little 
Helen.  But  when  they  were  alone,  he  was  far 
frjm  being  as  gentle  in  manner,  or  as  choice  in 
his  selection  of  words. 

"  Will  you  listen  to  reason,  Jane  ?"  How  very 
imperative  the  tone  in  which  he  would  thus  address 
her,  on  finding  that  she  would  neither  discuss  a 
question  touching  the  mode  of  dressing,  feeding, 
or  managing  the  babe,  nor  in  any  way  modify  her 
own  nursery-discipline.  Or  he  would  say,  in  his 
impatience — 

"  I  believe  you  would  destroy  the  child's  health 
rather  than  yield,  in  the  slightest  degree,  to  my 
wishes."  Or — 

"  I  will  have  none  of  this  nonsense  !  The  child 
is  mine  as  well  as  yours  ;  and  my  word,  touching 
its  welfare,  must  have  weight !" 

But  all  this  availed  little.  Mrs.  Hardy  believed 
that  she  understood  the  babe's  true  character  and 
wants  much  better  than  the  father,  and  in  nothing 
did  she  yield.  His  unkind  words  she  bore  with 
patience,  though  often  they  fell  heavily  upon  her 
heart. 

Up  U)  its  third  month,  the  child  had  been  very 


170  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

healthy,  not  once  requiring  the  attendance  of  a 
physician.  On  the  subject  of  medicine,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  agree.  In  Mr.  EnfieldV 
family,  the  homoeopathic  treatment  had  beeiit 
adopted,  and  their  daughter  had  been  used  to  it 
from  childhood  up  to  womanhood.  Mr.  Hardy, 
on  the  contrary,  scouted  at  the  new  treatment  as 
based  on  a  tissue  of  absurdities,  and  altogether  at 
war  with  his  favourite  common-sense.  He  had  no 
more  faith  in  a  trituration  or  a  dilution,  than  in  so 
much  pure  sugar  or  alcohol. 

In  the  choice  of  her  own  physician  Mrs.  Hardy 
firmly  adhered  to  the  medical  faith  in  which  she 
had  been  educated,  and  in  the  truth  of  which  she 
had  the  strongest  assurance.  Mr.  Hardy  tried  to 
reason  with  her  on  the  subject ;  but  she  offered  no 
arguments  in  return,  simply  adhering  to  her  pur 
pose.  But,  when  it  came  to  the  question  of  a 
physician  for  the  sick  babe,  the  father  was  deter 
mined  to  have  his  own  will,  and  an  allopathist 
was  called.  Mrs.  Hardy  made  no  opposition 
beyond  a  simple  pleading  remonstrance.  For  her 
self  she  would  have  asked  nothing ;  yet,  for  her 
babe,  she  would  have  humbled  herself  at  his  feet, 
could  that  have  availed  anything.  But  she  had 
learned  to  believe  her  husband's  oft-repeated  words, 
"  John  Hardy  never  changes."  And  so  she  was 
passive. 

The  physician,  a  kind,  gentlemanly,   sympa- 


THE    FIRST-BORN.  171 

thizing  man,  came  at  the  summons,  and  found  the 
babe  ill,  and  in  immediate  need  of  attention.  He 
had  never,  seen  Mrs.  Hardy  before,  and  was  struck 
with  her  manner  and  appearance,  but  particularly 
witli  the  singular  way  in  which  she  received  him. 
"When  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  child,  he  could 
see  that  the  mother  shrank  from  him  with  a  kind 
of  dread,  and  that  she  was  altogether  ill  at  ease. 
Anxious  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  this,  he 
first  sought  by  kind  inquiries,  and  expressions  of 
tender  interest  in  the  babe,  to  gain  her  confidence 
and  he  was  in  a  measure  successful.  Then,  after 
carefully  noting  all  the  symptoms,  he  spoke  en 
couragingly,  and  predicted  a  speedy  return  to 
health. 

"  You  will  not  give  her  very  strong  medicine, 
Doctor  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hardy,  with  much  anxiety  in 
her  tone. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  answered  promptly ;  "  infants 
cannot  bear  strong  medicines." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that  matter, 
child,"  remarked  Mr.  Hardy,  affecting  a  lightness 
of  manner  which  he  did  not  feel.  "  The  doctor 
understands  the  case  and  its  requirements,  and 
will,  with  due  caution,  do  everything  that  is 
needed." 

The  doctor  now  wrote  a  prescription  which 
Mrs.  Hardy  read  over  eagerly,  as  soon  as  it  was 
completed.  She  understood  enough  of  it  to  be 


THE  WITHERED    HEART. 

aware  that  it  was  nauseous,  and  would  have  to  be 
given  every  hour. 

"  You  had  better  send  for  the  medicine  at  once," 
said  the  doctor,  speaking  to  Mr.  Hardy.  "  The 
sooner  we  make  an  attack  upon  this  disease,  the 
sooner  we  may  hope  to  dislodge  the  enemy." 

"  It  shall  he  procured  immediately,"  answered 
Mr.  Hardy  ;  "  I  will  myself  call  at  the  druggist's, 
and  see  that  it  is  here  in  less  than  twenty  minutes." 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Hardy's  mind  seemed  to 
take  a  new  interest  in  the  case.  She  asked  the 
doctor  very  particularly  as  to  the  character  of  the 
disease,  and  what  parts  of  the  body  were  most 
aff.  cted  by  it.  The  questions  were  answered  with 
all  the  minuteness  she  seemed  to  desire. 

As  soon  as  the  physician  had  left,  Mr.  Hardy's 
manner  changed  towards  his  wife,  as  it  usually 
did  after  the  departure  of  any  visitor. 

"  I  will  send  home  the  medicine  immediately," 
gaid  he,  preparing  to  leave,  "and  be  sure  to  give 
it  according  to  directions." 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  reply.  Indeed  she  rarely 
made  answer  to  any  imperative  requirement  made 
by  her  husband. 

Mr.  Hardy  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  fretted,  as  he  usually  was,  at  the  seeaning 
indifference  of  her  manner,  and  tempted  to  utter 
some  rebuke.  He  repressed  the  words  that  were 
on  his  tongue,  however,  and  withdrew  in  silence 


THE    FIRST-BORN.  173 

The  moment  he  left  the  room,  a  new  purpose 
seemed  to  awaken  in  the  mind  of  his  wife.  An 
intelligent  change  passed  over  her  countenance; 
her  whole  form  arose  from  its  shrinking  attitude, 
and  she  leaned  her  head,  listening  to  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps.  When  she  heard  the  street-door 
close,  she  called  the  nurse,  resigned  the  habe  to 
her,  went  from  the  nursery  to  the  bed-room,  and 
commenced  a  hurried  preparation  to  go  out. 

By  the  time  she  was  ready,  a  lad  from  the 
apothecary's  came  with  the  medicine.  As  soon  as 
the  preparation  reached  her  hands,  she  thrust  it 
into  a  drawer,  with  an  expression  of  disgust  on 
her  countenance. 

Going  back  to  the  nursery,  she  said  to  the 
attendant  who  had  little  Helen  in  charge — "  Take 
good  care  of  my  precious  one.  I  am  going  out ; 
but  I  shall  be  back  in^less  than  half  an  hour." 

The  nurse  could  not  help  remarking  an  unusual 
glow  on  Mrs.  Hardy's  face,  and  an  unusual 
brightness  in  her  eyes. 

From  her  own  home,  to  the  dwelling  of  the 
physician  who  had  visited  her  father's  family  from 
earliest  days  which  memory  could  recall,  the  young 
mother  went  with  almost  the  fleetness  of  wind. 
Concealing  all  but  the  fact  of  her  babe's  illness, 
she  gave  the  doctor  so  clear  a  statement  of  the 
case,  that  he  could  prescribe  almost  as  intelligently 
as  if  the  patient  were  before  him. 


174  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

On  giving  her  the  required  medicine,  he  said— 

"  Perhaps  I  had  hetter  call  in,  during  the  day, 
and  see  if  the  remedy  takes  the  requisite  effect." 

"  No,  Doctor,"  was  answered.  "  I  have  reasons 
for  not  wishing  you  to  call.  Alter  dinner  I  will 
come  round  again,  and  let  you  know  what  change 
has  occurred  in  the  symptoms.  In  the  mean  time, 
give  me  any  hint  you  think  needed  in  the  observa 
tion  of  them.'* 

The  doctor  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  gave 
the  directions  she  asked.  Hurrying  home,  her 
heart  fluttering  with  fear  lest  her  husband,  from 
some  instinctive  knowledge  of  what  she  was  doing, 
should  have  returned  during  her  absence,  she 
entered,  with  glowing  cheeks,  the  room  where  she 
had  left  her  babe.  The  nurse  looked  up  with  an 
anxious  countenance. 

"Poor  child!"  she  said  almost  tearfully.  "Plow 
ill  she  is  !  H  uln't  we  better  give  her  the  medicine ; 
it  must  surely  be  come?" 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  brought  to  me,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Hardy,  averting  her  face,  so  that  its  expression 
could  betray  nothing  that  was  in  her  thoughts.  "  I 
will  bring  it  in  a  moment."  After  bending  do^n 
to  look  at  her  sick  child,  and  kissing  it,  she  went 
hastily  to  her  room.  Then  taking  the  medicine 
prescribed  by  the  visiting  physician,  she  carried 
it  to  the  nursery,  and  handing  it  to  the  attendant, 
said  as  she  received  the  babe  into  her  own  arms — 


THE   FIRST-BORN.  175 

'Mix  this  according  to  the  directions,  and 
bring  it  up  when  ready.  It  is  to  be  given  every 
hour." 

The  nurse  took  the  packet  of  medicine,  remark 
ing  lo  herself,  as  she  did  so,  that  not  many  mothers 
would  trust  another  to  prepare  medicine  for  a  sick 
babe,  and  went  down  stairs  to  obey  the  orders. 
The  moment  she  had  left  the  room,  Mrs.  Hardy 
drew  forth  a  little  packet  of  powders,  and  hastily 
opening  one  of  them,  dropped  its  contents  into 
her  infant's  mouth.  It  was  no  offensive  dose,  for 
the  lips  of  the  sick  babe  were  instantly  compressed, 
and  then  moved  as  if  a  sweet  morsel  were  on  its 
tongue. 

When  the  nurse  returned,  the  mother  was 
gazing  anxiously  on  the  child,  yet  with  a  new 
hope  in  her  heart,  born  of  her  confidence  in  the 
attenuated  remedies  prescribed  by  the  old  family- 
physician.  The  attendant  came  forward,  and 
stood  before  Mrs.  Hardy,  holding  the  cup  of  medi 
cine,  in  expectation  that  she  would  take  a  spoon 
ful  of  the  sickening  compound,  and  force  it  down 
the  throat  of  the  tender  babe.  Mrs.  Hardy  looked 
at  its  face  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said — 

"  Put  the  cup  on  the  table ;  I  will  not  disturb 
her  just  now,  she  seems  to  be  sleeping." 

"  It  is  a  good  while  since  he  doctor  was  here,' 
suggested  the  nurse, — "  and  the  baby  is  very  ill 
Isn't  it  risking  too  much  to  delay  any  longer  ?" 


176  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

t(  I  "will  not  disturb  her  at  present,"  replied 
Mrs.  Hardy  firmly.  "  She  is  asleep,  and  sleep  is 
a  great  restorative." 

"  You  can  go  down  stairs,"  she  added,  after  a 
little  while.  "  When  I  want  you,  I  will  ring." 

The  nurse  wondering  at  what  seemed  to  her 
such  singular  conduct,  obeyed  the  suggestion,  and 
left  the  apartment.  Not  once  was  the  babe  out 
of  its  mother's  arms  from  that  time  until  Mr. 
Hardy's  return  at  two  o'clock.  Every  half  hour 
during  that  period,  she  had  given  a  powder,  and 
now  had  the  infinite  satisfaction  of  seeing  a 
marked  improvement — so  marked,  that  the  father, 
as  he  bent  anxiously  over  his  first-born,  felt  a 
heavy  weight  of  care  taken  from  his  bosom. 

"  Dr. -Fairfax  is  a  man  of  great  skill,"  said  he 
"  His  prescription  is  doing  wonders.  You  may 
rest  in  the  fullest  assurance  that  all  is  safe  in  his 
hands.  A  very  different  state  of  things  would 
now  exist,  had  I  been  weak  enough  to  yield  to 
your  prejudice,  in  favour  of  the  silliest  medical 
practice  that  ever  deceived  the  people.  Instead 
of  this  healthy  change,  our  precious  babe  would 
now,  in  all  probability,  have  been  far  out  of  the 
reach  of  human  aid." 

Mrs.  Hardy  offered  no  reply,  but  kept  her  face 
bent  so  low  over  the  babe  in  her  lap,  that  its 
expression  was  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  hei 
husband. 


THE    FIRST-BORN. 

When  the  doctor  called  soon  afterwards,  hft 
found  a  most  encouraging  change.  The  fever  had 
entirely  suhsided,  and  every  other  symptom  of 
disease  was  visibly  abated..  He  congratulated 
the  mother  on  the  favourable  turn  things  had 
taken,  consequent  on  the  curative  action  of  the 
medicine  prescribed. 

Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  respond  very  warmly  to 
this,  nor  did  she  seem  at  her  ease.  Naturally 
free  from  guile,  and  truthful  from  principle,  this, 
almost  the  first  instance  of  her  life  in  which  she 
had  acted  with  duplicity,  disturbed  the  quiet  of 
her  self-repose.  She  had  deceived  the  doctor, 
and  done  what  he  would  regard  as  a  professional 
insult.  And  this  being  so,  she  could  not  assume 
towards  him  the  pleased,  familiar,  confiding  air 
his  manner  invited ;  but  rather  treated  him  with 
greater  coldness  and  reserve  than  in  the  morning. 
The  doctor  was  altogether  at  a  loss  to  understand 
her.  He  had  heard  something  said  as  to  her 
being  "  peculiar ;"  and  he  was  inclined  to  think 
that  there  might  be  some  truth  in  the  report. 

"  How  much  of  the  medicine  is  left  ?"  he  in 
quired,  looking  towards  the  mantel-piece,  where  the 
cup,  in  which  it  had  been  mixed,  was  standing. 

"It  is  all  gone,"  was  answered.     "  I  knocked 
over  the  cup  a  little  while  ago,  and  spilled  every 
drop.      But  baby  is  so  much  better  that  I  hardlj 
think  a  new  supply  will  be  needed." 
02 


178  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"  I  will  repeat  the  prescription,  making  a  slight 
change.  You  can  send  for  it,  and  give  a  dose 
every  three  hours,  instead  of  every  hour,  as  at 
first.'* 

The  doctor  departed,  musing  within  himself 
on  the  peculiarity  of  Mrs.  Hardy's  conduct,  and 
wondering  what  it  could  mean.  "  There  is  some 
thing  hehind  all  this,"  he  said  within  himself — 
"  something  hidden  below  the  surface,  and  out  of 
the  reach,  at  present,  of  my  plummet-line.  I 
must  dive  into  the  mystery." 

Mrs.  Hardy,  while  rejoicing  over  the  escape 
and  speedy  convalescence  of  her  babe,  and  feeling 
conscience-clear,  so  far  as  duty  to  her  tender 
offspring  was  concerned,  experienced  a  new  sense 
of  inward  pain.  A  stern  necessity,  as  she  deemed 
it,  had  required  her  to  do  violence  to  one  of  the 
instinctive  virtues  of  her  nature.  Truth  was 
born  with  her,  and  truthfulness  of  conduct  had 
ever  marked  her  deportment  from  childhood  up 
wards.  But,  in  this  thing,  she  had  deceived  her 
husband,  and  deceived  an  honourable,  kind,  and 
gentlemanly  physician.  How  painful  was  the 
self-abasement,  that  assumed  a  morbid  condition, 
and  which  increased  the  longer  her  thoughts 
dwelt  on  the  recent  hurried  scene  through  which 
she  had  passed  ! 

During  the  aftenioon,  Mrs.  Hardy  made  another 
visit  to  the  homoeopathic  physician,  and  received 


THE   FIRST-BORN.  179 

an  additional  supply  of  powders.  When  hei 
husband  returned  in  the  evening,  and  found  the 
habe  so  much  better  that  all  fear  on  its  account 
was  entirely  removed,  his  satisfaction  was  great, 
and  he  expressed  his  pleasure  in  the  wannest 
manner*  Mrs.  Hardy  seemed  scai'cely  cheerful, 
and  did  not  respond  in  a  way  that  to  him  was 
satisfactory.  Even  greater  than. his  was  her  re 
joicing  ;  but  her  pain  of  mind  was  great  also,  and 
shadowed  her  countenance.  She  had,  in  the  per 
formance  of  what  she  regarded  as  a  mother's 
sacred  duty,  done  violence  to  one  of  the  higher 
instincts  of  her  nature  —  and  such  violence  is 
always  followed  by  suffering. 

"  1  am  half  inclined  to  believe  that  you  are 
sorry  the  child  is  better,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  abruptly. 
(He  always  spoke  severely  to  her  now.  The  entire 
absence  of  any  sign  of  feeling  when  he  thus  spoke 
with  harshness,  led  him  into  the  erroneous  idea 
that  she  had  lost  the  sensibility  of  former  years, 
and  that  it  needed  a  deep  probe  and  a  firm  hand 
to  find  the  region  of  pain.  Most  faithfully  did  he 
act  up  to  this  conviction.) 

"Why  so?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hardy,  lifting  her 
quiet  eyes  to  his  face,  and  speaking  in  a  voice 
that  betrayed  no  emotion. 

"  Because  the  fact  proves  the  value  of  the  old 
and  true  system  of  medicine,  and  for  ever  silences 
your  cavilling  objections." 


180  THE  WITHERED   HEART 

There  was  no  change  on  the  countenance  of 
Mrs.  Hardy,  whose  eyes  dropped  to  the  face  of 
the  babe  that  lay  close  to  her  bosom.  But  it  was 
a  mistake  that  she  did  not  feel  the  unkindness  of 
her  husband's  remark.  She  would  have  caved 
less,  if  she  had  not  deceived  him.  That  fact 
rested  like  a  mountain  upon  her  heart,  and  made 
deeper  the  shadows  that  never  lifted  therefrom 
their  sombre  curtains  fur  a  moment. 

At  this  point  in  the  sad  history  of  her  inner 
life,  sickening  doubts  began  to  intrude  themselves 
upon  her  mind :  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom  and 
goodness  of  that  Divine  Provme.ice  which  she  had 
been  taught,  from  her  childhood  up,  to  regard  as 
personal,  and  as  extending  even  to  the  minutest 
particulars  of  life.  Truth  she  loved  and  revered ; 
a  fact  in  her  mental  organization,  which  may 
serve  to  show  how  deeply  she  must  have  suffered 
under  the  false  charge  of  "  acting  a  part,''  so  often 
alleged  against  her  by  her  husband.  The  new 
trial  into  which  she  was  brought  by  the  sickness 
of  her  babe,  with  the  seeming  necessity  that  rested 
upon  her  of  doing  what  was  in  contravention  of 
her  husband's  wishes, — and  that  with  a  secrecy 
which  to  her  involved  duplicity, — enabled  some 
evil  spirit  to  throw  into  her  mind  a  flood  of  doubts 
and  wild  questionings,  and  painfully  to  bewilder 
her  hitherto  clear  perceptions. 

Mr.  Hardy  having   gained   a  triumph,  as    he 


THE   FIRST-BORN.  181 

imagined,  over  his  wife,  and  compelled  her  to 
have  an  old-school  physician  to  attend  to  their 
sick  Iwhe,  did  not  show  himself  a  very  generous 
conqueror;  but  kept  referring  to  the  fact  over  and 
over  again,  and  in  a  way  that  was  far  from  being 
agreeable.  Mm.  Hardy  did  not  reply  to  him  in 
any  case.  But  he  saw  that  her  countenance, 
when  she  fell  into  her  usual  state  of  abstraction, 
was  more  shadowed  than  usual;  and  he  inter 
preted  the  meaning  of  this  to  suit  his  own  false 
estimate  of  her  feelings. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

jjehn's  <£arlg  0urati0iu 


"  We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 
This  unprevailing  woe  ;  and  think  of  Of, 
As  of  a  tiither."—  SUAKSPEABE. 

FROM  this  time  forward,  new  trials  awaited  Mrs. 
Hardy  at  almost  every  step  in  her  troubled  way 
through  life.  Her  views  of  home-education  by 
no  means  ran  parallel  with  those  of  her  husband  ; 
and  her  perceptions  of  her  children's  characters 
and  wants  were  altogether  different  from  his.  He 
made  rules  for  their  government  —  from  his  intel 
lect  ;  while  she  perceived  what,  was  best  for  them 
—  from  the  heart.  He  thought  out  a  system  of 
home-management,  and  decided  from  reason  that 
it  was  right  as  applied  to  children  in  all  cases, 
and  of  course  light  as  applied  to  his  own  ;  any 
deviation,  therefore,  from  this  system  on  the  part 
of  his  wife  was  met  by  complaint,  remonstrance, 
or  censure.  Many  of  his  rules  and  requirements 
were  regarded  by  her  as  oppressive  ;  others  as  cruel  ; 
and  most  of  them  as  in  direct  antagonism  to  the 
wants  of  the  children's  nature.  To  carry  them  out 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  183 

in  all  cases,  she  felt  to  he  wrong,  for  strict  execution 
of  his  laws  would  destroy  in  them  those  qualities, 
which,  if  nurtured  and  developed,  would  be  in  her 
estimation  the  crowning  graces  of  their  lives. 

And  so  the  years  passed,  with  but  little  sun 
shine  and  many  shadows  for  the  heart  of  the 
unhappy  wife  and  mother.  In  the  eyes  of  her 
husband,  she  was  still  a  rebel  in  heart  against  his 
just  authority;  and  he,  as  to  the  beginning, 
neither  forgave  the  opposition,  nor  yielded  in  any 
thing  to  what  he  deemed  whim  or  pervcrseness. 
All  her  sad  states  of  mind — her  days,  and  some 
times  weeks,  of  gloomy  prostration — he  regarded 
as  the  struggles  of  an  unbroken  spirit,  yet  striving 
for  the  ascendancy. 

The  single  instance  given,  wherein  Mrs.  Hardy 
deceived  her  husband,  in  order  to  save  her  babe 
from  what  she  regarded  the  cruelties  of  an  imper 
fect  system  of  medicine,  was  but  one  of  a  thou 
sand.  Almost  daily,  for  the  sake  of  her  children, 
did  she  act  towards  her  husband  with  duplicity; 
and  every  such  act  laid  a  new  weight  upon  her 
heart,  until  the  pressure  became  more  than  she 
well  knew  how  to  bear. 

During  all  this  time,  even  while  the  ordeal 
through  which  Mrs.  Hardy  was  passing  was 
paling  h^r  cheeks,  robbing  her  beautiful  eyes  of 
their  lustre,  wasting  her  form  of  perfect  symmetry 
to  a  shadow,  and  shutting  her  up  recluse-like  al 


84  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

home,  her  husband  retained  his  sunny  presence; 
and  in  all  companies  and  at  all  times,  save  when 
alone  with  his  wife,  met  friends  and  strangers  in 
the  most  genial  manner.  As  in  former  days,  so 
was  he  still  largely  interested  in  the  prosecution 
of  general  schemes  of  benevolence,  and  freely  gave 
his  money  to  sustain  them. 

Not  having  secured  sunshine  at  home — the 
sunshine  so  much  coveted  and  so  much  talked 
about  at  the  commencement  of  his  married  life 
— he  was  more  ready  to  give  his  evenings  to 
board-meetings,  public  assemblies,  and  other  con 
vocations,  at  which  he  either  presided,  or  appeared 
in  some  prominent  position.  In  the  eyes  of  most 
men,  and  most  women  also,  he  was  i  vioble  speci 
men  of  humanity  ;  and  when,  at  distant  intervals, 
his  wretched  unhappy-looking  wife,  self-compelled, 
appeared  with  him  abroad,  people  regarded  her 
with  wonder,  and  pitied  her  husband. 

Seven  years  after  the  marriage  of  Mrs.  Hardy, 
both  her  father  and  mother  died,  within  the  space 
of  a  single  mon4h.  Her  husband,  as  the  sad 
separation  drev  roar — and  its  occurrence  was  seen 
to  be  ineviti,h!e- -awaited  the  consummation  with' 
considerable  uneasiness,  in  expectation  of  its  de 
pressing  effect  upon  his  wife's  mind.  But  the 
solemn  hour  of  death  came  to  both  father  and 
mother,  and  the  daughter  passed,  tearless,  with 
scarcely  a  sign  of  emotion,  through  the  scene. 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  185 

Even  Mr.  Hardy  was  moved  by  the  sight,  and 
wept  at  the  visible  tokens  of  mortality. 

Friends  and  strangers  looked  on  in  wonder,  and 
falsely  judging  the  wronged,  bewildered,  suffering 
daughter,  assumed  that  she  was  devoid  of  feeling ; 
while  her  husband  also  permitted  himself  to  draw 
partially  the  same  conclusion. 

What  her  real  state  of  mind  was,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  describe.  To  herself,  it  was  an  appal 
ling  mystery,  and  she  felt  terrified  as  the  thought 
of  insanity  intruded  itself  like  the  countenance  of 
a  mocking  fiend. 

"  I  have  not  ranch  strength  left,  O  Lord  God 
of  my  fathers!"  she  prayed  in  hopeless  anguish, 
yet  praying  from  the  very  instinct  of  hopelessness 
and  danger.  "  Stand  by  me,  or  I  faint  and  fall 
by  the  way.  Lead,  oh  lead  me  out  of  this  bewil 
dering  maze.  Show  me  the  path  of  life." 

And  at  this  very  time,  Mr.  John  Hardy  stood 
up,  in  spirit,  and  said — "  I  thank  thee,  O  Lord, 
that  I  am  not  as  other  men ! " 

The  world  looked  on,  and,  praising  the  pharisee, 
misjudged  the  unhappy  publican. 

Time  moved  on,  with  little  change  in  the  aspect 
of  things.  More  children  were  born  to  the  striving 
mother,  and  new  duties  laid  upon  her ;  until  seven 
little  ones  gathered  around  her  in  childish  inno 
cence  and  beauty. 

She  was  not  a  proud,  nor  a  happy,  but  a  loving 


186  THE   WITHERED    HEART 

mother ;  sometimes  a  weakly  loving,  and  a  wronglj 
indulgent  mother.  But,  all  things  considered, 
who  can  wonder  at  this  ?  It  would  have  heen 
strange  if  it  had  been  otherwise.  Maternal  love 
and  duty  now  sustained  her.  As  a  wife,  she  had 
nothing  to  lift  her  up.  All  the  twining  tendrils, 
which,  at  the  beginning,  had  shot  forth,  and  with 
the  instinct  of  a  womanly  heart,  had  laid  hold  of 
her  husband's  manly  nature,  inweaving  them 
selves  therewith,  had  slowly  relaxed  their  clinging 
coils,  letting  the  vine  fall  away,  and  droop  to  the 
earth,  from  which  in  its  young  life  it  had  arisen 
joyfully.  Had  there  been  no  mother's  love,  she 
must  have  died. 

Long  ere  this,  every  vestige  of  true  affection  had 
perished  in  the  hearts  of  both  wife  and  husband, 
who  now  barely  tolerated  each  other.  The  bond 
that  still  held  them  together  was  a  threefold  one  : — 
love  for  their  mutual  offspring;  a  regard  for  ap 
pearances  ;  and  a  sense  of  the  binding  force  of 
their  marriage-vows.  But  for  one,  or  all  of  these, 
they  would  have  been  driven  asunder,  years 
Before,  with  a  strong  repulsion. 

The  care  of  her  seven  children  fully  occupied 
Mrs.  Hardy's  time  and  thoughts,  offering  a  valid 
reason  for  her  declining  to  go  into  society,  except 
at  distant  intervals,  or  on  very  special  occasions. 
It  was  this  care  that  sustained  her.  In  the  daily 
performance  of  duty,  she  found  a  measure  of 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  187 

strength  ;  and  in  the  love  of  her  children,  at  times, 
H  precious  consolation. 

Too  frequently,  however,  the  interference  of  her 
nusbaiid  with  her  rule  among  the  children,  his 
opposition  to  her  wishes  in  regard  to  them,  and 
his  custom  of  pursuing  a  line  of  discipline  totally 
at  variance  with  her's,  robbed  her  of  this  only 
source  of  pleasure  that  remained  to  brighten  feebly 
her  gloomy  way. 

The  first  three  children  were  daughters.  When 
the  oldest  reached  the  age  of  fourteen,  Mr.  Hardy, 
finding  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  his  wife 
do  just  as  he  wished  in  regard  to  her,  assumed 
the  position,  in  his  own  mind,  that  the  child 
would  be  ruined  if  suffered  to  remain  at  home 
So  he  took  into  consideration  the  scheme  of  send 
ing  her  to  a  boarding-school;  and  after  viewing 
the  question  on  all  sides,  determined  the  mattei 
affirmatively.  The  first  intimation  received  by 
tin-  mother,  that  he  was  even  thinking  upon  the 
subject,  came  in  the  announcement  of  his  settled 
purpose. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Mr.  Hardy  had  seen 
his  wife  so  moved.  The  proposition  disturbed  her 
more;  profoundly  than  anything  that  had  occurred 
for  years.  % 

"  No,  John,"  she  said,  as  soon  a,s  she  could 
Compose  herself  enough  to  speak  calmly  ;  "don't 
think  of  that.  Helen  must  not  be  sent  away. 


188  THE   WITHEREF    HEART. 

Home   is    always   tie   best  and  safest    place  foi 
children." 

"  Not  always,"  was  the  cold  reply.  "  Helen 
will  be  ruined,  if  she  remains  at  home." 

" Ruined,  John  !     How?" 

"  In  many  ways.  I  can  see  that  she  is  changing 
for  the  worse  every  day.  Do  you  require  her  to 
learn  all  her  lessons  correctly  ? " 

"  As  far  as  it  is  in  my  power  to  attend  to  her. 
But,  you  must  remember,  that  she  is  not  the  only 
one  I  have  under  my  care.." 

"  Just  so.  And  that  shows  the  necessity  of  hei 
being  placed  in  different  circumstances,  where  she 
can  be  better  trained  than  it  is  possible  for  her  to 
be  at  home." 

*'  Why  not  get  a  private  teacher  or  governess  ?" 
suggested  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  private  teachers,"  was 
answered  dogmatically.  "  Never  knew  one  that 
was  worth  a  copper.  No,  no.  It  is  not  a  private 
teacher  that  Helen  wants,  but  a  new  set  of  asso 
ciations :  and  these  I  have  made  up  my  mind  she 
shall  have." 

Powerless  in  the  iron  grasp  of  her  husband 
had  Mrs.  Hardy  felt  for  years.  Opposition  she 
knew  to  be  hopeless;  but  passive,  silent  endurance 
was,  in  this  case,  no  protection  for  her  child.  For 
herself,  she  never  thought  of  beseeching  any  change 
in  the  stern,  hard  deciskns  which  she  had  learned 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  189 

to  recognise  as  unalterable.  She  could  endure; 
she  could  not  cry  out  for  mercy.  But  now 
another's  happiness  and  well-being  were  at  stake 
— even  the  happiness  and  well-being  of  her  pre 
cious  child,  her  first-born,  who  inherited,  in  a 
high  degree,  her  own  sensitive  nature.  The 
thought  of  sending  her  from  home,  sent  a  thrill 
of  pain  to  her  heart. 

"  Lot  me  pray  you,  John,"  she  said,  in  tones 
of  pleading  anguish,  "  to  refrain  from  this.  Helen 
is  not  the  child  to  send  away  from  home.  Do  not 
make  her  wretched ! " 

"  She  is  just  the  child  that  needs  to  be  sent 
away,"  was  the  unyielding  reply ;  "  and  it  is  our 
duty  to  look  to  her  future  good.  A  few  tears  will 
do  her  no  harm  ;  and  they  will  soon  be  dry.  The 
grief  of  childhood  is  as  the  morning  cloud  and  the 
early  dew." 

"  You  do  not  know  her  truly.  Trust  me,  when 
I  say  that  it  will  be  doing  a. great  wrong  to  send 
her  from  home  to  school.  Oh,  dismiss  the  thought 
at  once  from  your  mind ;  and  if  there  is  anything 
in  which  I  can  meet  your  wishes  in  regard  to  her, 
it  shall  be  done  cheerfully." 

"  You  cannot  help  indulging  her  natural  weak 
nesses  and  habits  of  indolence,  aud  these,  unless 
eradicated,  will  destroy  her  as  a  \\oman.     Youi 
imbecile  yielding  to  every  whim  of  yo«»v  children, 
is  ruining  them    as   I  have    told  you  again  ana 


190  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

again.  But,  all  that  I  have  said  has  gone  for 
nothing;  and  now  I  take  the  matter  into  ray  own 
hands.  By  this  time,  you  are  probably  aware, 
that  I  go  through  with  whatever  I  undertake 
Helen  has  got  to  leave  home.  That  I  wish  you  to 
regard  as  a  settled  thing ! " 

Mrs.  Hardy's  heart,  which  had  leaped  and  strug 
gled  with  pain  at  her  husband's  announcement  of 
his  intention  to  send  their  eldest  daughter  away 
to  school,  now  fell  heavily,  and  almost  pulselessly 
in  her  bosom.  Her  head  drooped  until  her  face 
was  so  hidden  from  her  husband's  eyes,  that  he 
could  not  see  its  expression ;  and  there  she  sat,  as 
her  husband  had  seen  her  sit  so  many  times, 
motionless  as  a  statue — the  very  image  of  despair. 
Not  the  slightest  wave  of  pity  moved  over  his 
feelings,  as  he  looked  at  his  wife,  nor  was  there  in 
his  mind  the  slightest  change  of  purpose.  What 
ever  he  saw  to  be  right,  that  he  set  himself  to  do, 
and  with  an  unflinching  purpose.  He  had  rea 
soned  himself  into  the  clear  conviction,  that  it  was 
best  for  Helen  to  leave  home,  and  from  home  she 
must  go,  if  all  the  world  were  in  opposition. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  they  were  alone. 
Mr.  Hardy  felt  very  composed,  resolute,  and  well 
satisfied  with  himself.  He  had  proposed  to  do 
only  a  plain  duty — and  to  use  his  own  words — 
"  Duty  with  John  Hardy  was  law."  He  had  turned 
partly  away  from  his  wife,  so  that  the  unpleasant 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  191 

aspect  of  her  drooping,  motionless  form,  might  not 
offend  his  eyes ;  and,  to  appear  indifferent  to  her 
state  of  feeling,  had  taken  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  which  he  rustled  most  imposingly.  For 
nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  read  over  the  news, 
all  of  which  he  had  read  before,  and  conned  ad 
vertisements  in  which  he  felt  not  a  particle  of 
interest,  momentarily  expecting  his  wife  to  move 
from  her  fixed  position.  But  she  gave  no  indica 
tion  of  life  or  feeling. 

"Jane!"  He  had  arisen,  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  her,  with  a  kind  of  lordly,  imperious 
air.  She  started  at  his  voice,  and  fairly  sprung  to 
her  feet, — looking  for  some  moments,  as  if  just 
awakened  from  a  bewildering  dream,  and  not  yet 
able  to  distinguish  between  what  was  fantastic  and 
what  was  real.  Mr.  Hardy  had  never  before  seen 
so  peculiar  an  expression  in  her  face  ;  nothing  so 
like  the  glare  and  distortion  of  insanity. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "it  is  getting  late."  He 
moved  a  pace  or  two  towards  the  door.  But  his 
wife  did  not  stir  from  the  spot  where  she  was 
standing. 

"  Jane  !  This  is  folly  !  madness  !"  Mr.  Hardy 
turned  upon  his  wife,  almost  angrily. 

The  poor  suffering  woman  struck  her  hand  hard 
upon  her  forehead,  and,  holding  it  there  tightly, 
looked  up  into  her  husband's  cruel  countenance 
with  steady,  intense,  fiery  eyes. 


192  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

A  slight  shudder  ran  along  his  nerves,  as  she 
continued  thus  to  gaze. 

"  John,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  that  was  deeper 
and  hoarser  than  any  he  had  ever  heard  from  her 
lips.  "I  warn  you  not  to  do  this  thing!  I  cannot 
part  with  Helen.  She  is  my  first-bom ;  my  very 
life  is  hound  up  in  her ;  she  is  the  warm  sunshine 
upon  my  path.  Don't  separate  us ! " 

"  This  is  all  idle — all  selfish  weakness,"  replied 
Mr.  Hardy.  "  I  am  amazed  at  your  folly !" 

"  John  !" — there  was  no  change  in  the  quality 
of  Mrs.  Hardy's  voice,  except  that  it  conveyed  a 
deeper  warning, — "  there  is  always  a  point  beyond 
which  the  strongest  heart  cannot  sustain  itself. 
I  feel  that  mine  is  on  the  utmost  verge  of  en 
durance.  Spare  me,  then,  my  husband !  Oh  ! 
spare  me !  Do  not  strike  me  down  with  this 
threatened  blow.  I  shall  surely  sink  to  the  earth, 
if  it  falls  upon  me." 

The  tremor  of  weakness  was  in  some  of  the 
tones  that  uttered  this  sentence,  while  some  of 
them  were  harsh  and  unnatural. 

"  Jane,"  was  the  slow,  steadily  spoken  reply, — 
"as  I  have  just  said,  I  am  amazed  at  all  this. 
You  talk  as  if  I  were  a  persecuting  tyrant,  and 
not  a  thoughtful  father,  seeking  the  good  of  his 
children,  and  firm  in  his  purposes  of  duty.  Spare 
me,  I  pray  you ! " 

"O  John!"     How  very  sad,  almost  wailing, 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  193 

was  ner  voice,  as  she  added  —  "  Let  me  beg  of  you 
to  stand  still.  Every  step  beyond  the  point  where 
you  now  are,  will  be  upon  my  heart.  Your  foot 
is  very  heavy;  and  the  heel  is  shod  with  iron ! 
Visit  me  with  any  other  discipline — it  matters  not 
how  severe — but  spare  me  in  this.  Spare  me ;  for 
my  strength  is  not  equal  to  the  trial!" 

"  Jane  Hardy  ! " — there  was  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  weakness  in  the  husband's  accents, — "  I 
am  not  to  be  moved  from  a  purpose  which  I  know 
to  be  right,  by  any  passionate  appeals.  Such 
things  go  for  nothing  with  me — literally  nothing!" 

"  Hard  of  heart,  and  cruel  of  purpose ! " 
Another  change  in  the  mother's  aspect  Avas  visi 
ble.  The  almost  wild  excitement  into  which  this 
new  assault  upon  her  feelings  had  aroused  her, 
died  away  in  all  its  visible  manifestations,  and 
her  face  took  again  its  almost  stony  expression. 
But  there  was  a  prophecy  of  coming  evil  in  the 
eyes  that  were  riveted  upon  the  face  of  her  hus 
band  with  a  look  that  sent  a  sudden  chill  along 
his  frame.  "God  will  judge  between  us!  Again 
I  warn  you,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  not  to  send 
our  child  away !  Evil  will  come  of  it ;  and  on 
your  head  it  will  rest  with  a  heavy  curse." 

"  Let  it  come  !"  The  cold,  persistent  charactei 
of  John  Hardy  spoke  in  these  few  words.  Pride 
left  no  room  for  pity  or  for  change:  "  Let  it  come!" 
he  repeated,  that  his  firmness  might  the  more 


194  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

fully  appear.  ''  If  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  bear 
all  the  evil  you  predict,  let  it  crush  me  down  I '" 

"  Selfish  and  cruel  to  the  last ! "  The  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Hardy  never  turned  for  an  instant  from  her 
husband's  face,  nor  lost  their  weird  expression. 
"  You  are  a  brave,  bold  man ! "  What  a  sharp, 
stinging  scorn  came  suddenly  into  her  husny  voice. 
"  A  brave,  bold  man ! "  she  repeated  the  words 
very  emphatically,  "  to  do  battle  for  conquest  with 
a  weak  woman,  and  a  helpless  child !  A  safe  field 
for  immaculate  knight-errantry  this !  How  proudly 
your  trophies  will  be  worn !  All  men  will  do 
honour  to  him  who  carries  the  shield  of  the  broken 
heart!" 

"Jane  Hardyi  Peace!  Viper!"  Mr.  Hardy 
stamped  his  foot,  and  threw  fiery  and  threatening 
glances  upon  his  wife.  But  there  was  no  change 
in  her  countenance  or  attitude. 

"  There  will  come  for  you,  as  there  comes  to 
every  one,  John  Hardy,  a  day  of  reckoning! 
There  is  an  Eye  that  sees  into  every  heart, — a 
just  God  who  rewards  and  punishes ;  the  same 
God  who  said,  two  thousand  years  ago,  as  He  says 
now,  and  will  say  for  ever — '  Woe  unto  you  scribes 
and  Pharisees — hypocrites  ! ' ' 

"  Peace,  I  say ! "  The  heavy  stroke  of  Mr. 
Hardy's  foot,  jarred  the  room,  and  rattled  the 
pendants  that  glittered  on  the  candelabras. 

"  Peace  ?     Peace  ? "     Mrs    Hardy  spoke  in  an 


HELEN'S  EARLY  EDUCATION.  195 

uncler-tone,  as  if  to  herself.  "  Long,  long  ago  the 
rustle  of  her  white  garments  was  heard  in  de 
parture.  She  will  not  come  at  your  call,  John 
TIardy ! " 

"  Mad  woman  !"  was  retorted  angrily. 

A  gleam  shot  across  the  face  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  as 
if  the  light  of  a  torch  had  fallen  upon  it  suddenly. 
It  was  paler  the  next  instant. 

"  Mad  woman!"  repeated  her  hushand, in  hlind 
indignation. 

"  Go  your  ways,  John  Hardy  !  Do  your  worst. 
Waste  no  pity  on  me.  The  utmost  verge  ol 
endurance  is  at  last  reached,  and  visions  of  un 
conscious  rest  are  floating  in  the  distance.  You 
have  often  said  that  you  would  bond  me  to  youi 
will,  if  I  broke  in  the  bending,  and  that  there  must 
be  a  submission  on  my  part  before  there  could  be 
peace.  If  I  had  been  a  mere  machine ;  if  there 
ha'*  been  no  life  in  me,  kindled  from  the  life  oi 
God,  and  vital  with  freedom,  the  gift  of  God,  I 
might  have  submitted  long  ago,  and  laid  myself 
down  upon  the  earth,  feeling  no  pain  when  tram 
pled  upon.  But  it  was  otherwise.  I  had  ar. 
individuality — a  mental  and  moral  organization — 
different  from  yours ;  a  soul,  God-owned,  not  hus 
band-owned  ;  a  nature  with  instinctive  wants, 
and  capacities  for  joy  or  sorrow,  independent  even 
of  its  own  volitions.  I  had  no  power  to  lay  my 
hand  upon  iny  suffering  heart,  and  say,  *  Peace,  be 


196  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

«till ! '  Too  blind  in  his  selfish  pride  to  co'n- 
»rehend  anything  of  this,  was  John  Hardy.  But 
let  all  that  go  with  the  rest.  The  husband's  heart 
is  dead.  Yet  if  there  is  a  living  pulse  in  the 
father's  heart,  let  it  beat  with  something  of  a 
father's  true  feeling  for  his  child.  Do  not  send 
her  away  from  home !  Do  not  cloud  her  young 
life !  Do  not  make  the  days  weary  and  dark,  that 
should  be  bright  and  warm  with  sunshine." 

"  Poor  fool ! "  Yes,  these  were  the  cruel,  heart 
less  words  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Hardy, 
as  he  turned  away  iu  blind  am/or,  and  left  the 
apartment. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

fta  stilt  to  SttyuiL 

*  To  make  them  do,  undo,  eat,  drink,  stand,  more, 
Talk,  think,  and  feel,  exactly  as  he  chose ! 

The  root  from  which  it  grew  was  Pride ;  bad  root, 
And  bad  the  fruit  it  bore  1 " — POLLOK. 

THE  calmness  of  feeling  that  succeeds  to  sleep— 
the  morning's  clearer  perceptions — the  subsiding 
of  passion  through  the  lapse  of  time, — of  all  these 
had  Mr.  Hardy  the  advantage ;  and  yet,  there  was 
born  in  his  heart  no  softer  feeling  for  his  un 
happy  wife — no  wavering  in  his  purpose  towards 
his  child.  To  send  the  latter  away  from  home 
he  saw  to  be  a  plain  duty;  and  no  pity  for  the 
weakness  or  stubborn  self-will  of  his  long-endur 
ing  wife,  stirred  the  hard  surface  of  his  heart. 

On  entering  the  family  sitting-room,  the  next 
morning,  a  little  scene  met  his  eye,  that  would 
have  melted  the  feelings  of  most  men.  but  which 
only  added  another  layer  of  ice  to  his.  Mrs. 
Hardy  sat  with  her  youngest  child  in  her  lap, 
while  Helen,  the  eldest,  stood  with  her  arm  drawn 
8 


198  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

around  her  mother's  neck,  bending  over  and  talk 
ing  to  the  babe.  Very  tenderly  did  Helen  love 
her  mother,  and  very  tenderly  did  she  love  the 
sweet  young  sister,  who  was  as  a  sunbeam  in 
their  dwelling.  All  her  pure  life  seemed  bound 
up  in  theirs.  Towards  her  father,  Helen  had 
never  manifested  a  very  strong  affection.  There 
was  something  about  him  that  repressed  the  warm 
outgushing  of  her  heart;  and  since  she  had  be 
come  old  enough  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
certain  things  said  and  done  by  him  to'  her  mother, 
a  feeling  of  alienation  had  found  lodgment  in 
her  heart.  A  light  of  gladness  was  on  her  face, 
as  she  looked  up,  on  hearing  the  footsteps  of  her 
father;  but  it  faded  instantly.  There  was  an 
expression  on  his  countenance  that  caused  a  low 
chill  to  run  through  her  frame. 

"  Good  morning,  father ! "  she  said,  trying  to 
smile,  and  struggling  at  the  same  time  to  dispel 
the  feeling  that  came  over  her,  like  a  cloud  over 
the  sun.  Then  she  left  her  mother's  side,  and 
advanced  a  few  steps  to  meet  him. 

"  Good  morning,"  was  answered  almost  repul 
sively,  as  the  father  strode  past  his  child ;  and, 
lifting  the  morning-paper  from  the  table  on  which 
a  servant  had  placed  it,  he  sat  down,  and  turned 
himself  so  much  away  from  the  other  inmates  of 
the  room,  that  only  a  portion  of  his  face  could 
be  seen. 


HELEN  SENT  TO  SCHOOL.         199 

Helen  went  slowly  back  to  her  mother,  and 
drawing  her  arm  around  her  neck,  bent  over  the 
babe,  and  smiled  upon  it  again.  But  even  the 
babe  felt  the  smile  to  be  feebler,  and  gave  back 
only  a  feeble  smile  in  return.  A  shadow  had 
fallen  upon  all  their  spirits. 

For  some  minutes  there  was  a  stillness  in  the 
room  that  was  oppressive.  Even  the  younger 
children  hushed  their  prattle,  and  the  older  ones 
looked  half  in  wonder  at  their  father. 

"  Helen,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  laying  down  the 
paper,  not  a  single  line  of  which  had  he  read  with 
any  intelligent  perception  of  its  sense,  and  turning 
his  face  to  where  his  daughter  stood  with  her 
arms  clasping  her  mother's  neck — "  come  here ; 
I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

Helen,  with  a  timid  wondering  look,  came 
towards  her  father,  and  stood  gazing  upon  his 
calm  face,  in  which  she  saw  the  reflection  of  some 
fixed  intention. 

"  Helen,  in  what  I  am  now  about  to  say,  I 
wish  you  to  believe  me  entirely  in  earnest.  The 
matter  is  fully  settled  in  my  own  mind,  as  a 
tiling  best  to  be  done ;  and  I  expect  your  entire 
acquiescence." 

Mr.  Hardy  spoke  slowly,  distinctly,  and  im 
periously,  his  words  falling  like  successive  shocks 
upon  the  sensitive  feelings  of  his  child,  whom  he 
had  taken  entirely  off  her  guard  by  this  abrupt, 


200  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

ill-timed  introduction  of  a  subject  which  he  knew 
beforehand  would  be  painful. 

"  I  am  going  to  send  you  away  from  home  to 
school ! "  Helen  started,  and  turned  very  pale. 

"  Oh,  no !  don't,  father !  Don't  send  me  away 
to  school !  "  she  replied  instantly,  the  tears  gush 
ing  from  her  eyes. 

"Helen!  what  did  I  say  just  now?'*  Mr. 
Hardy  spoke  sternly. 

But  Helen  only  stood  still  and  wept. 

"  Answer  me ! "  The  father's  voice  was  calm, 
but  authoritative. 

"  O  father !  don't  send  me  away  from  home 
I  can't  leave  my  mother." 

Now  that  reason  was  the  very  worst  of  all  that 
could  have  been  urged. 

"  You  have  got  to  leave  her,"  was  almost 
angrily  replied,  "  So  make  your  mind  up  to  that. 
You'll  be  ruined  if  you  stay  at  home  any  longer." 

"  Mother !  O  mother !  won't  you  say  one  word 
for  me  ?"  exclaimed  Helen. 

Mr.  Hardy  gave  his  wife  a  look,  that,  if  he  had 
possessed  the  .power  to  do  so,  would  have  turned 
her  into  stone.  But  it  did  not  seal  her  lips,  for 
she  instantly  replied — 

"  It  is  not  my  will,  Helen.  I  wish  you  to  re 
main  at  home." 

"Weak,  perverse,  injudicious  mother!"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Hardy,  in  a  manner  more  passionate 


HELEN  SENT  TO  SCHOOL.         201 

than  he  had  ever  before  exhibited  in  his  family. 
"  I  am  tried  beyond  all  endurance  !  Have  all 
these  years  passed  without  your  knowing  me,  that 
you  now  so  madly  throw  yourself  between  my 
purposes  and  their  certain  execution  ?  Your 
blindness  and  folly  are  amazing !  I  have  already 
suid  to  you  that  Helen  must  be  sent  away  to 
school,  and  I  want  nothing  on  your  part  but 
accordant  action.  My  word  has  gone  forth,  and 
it  shall  not  fail !" 

Helen  uttered  not  a  syllable,  but  went  with 
slow  steps  from  her  father's  side,  and  coming  up 
to  where  her  mother  was  sitting,  threw  her  arms 
around  her  neck,  and  laid  her  face  upon  her 
bosom, —  the  entire  group  presenting  an  image 
of  despair. 

And  what  were  Mr.  Hardy's  thoughts  as  he 
looked  upon  this  picture  ?  Did  his  heart  soften  ? 
Was  there  even  a  slight  relenting?  These,  or 
such  as  these,  were  his  thoughts: — 

"  Was  ever  a  man  so  thwarted  in  his  purposes  ? 
Did  ever  a  man,  who  wished  to  do  right  and  be 
right,  meet  in  his  own  home  with  such  unreason 
able  opposition,  and  that  too  from  a  wife  who 
made  her  solemn  vows  of  love  and  obedience? 
What  end  have  I  in  view  ?  Simply  the  good  of 
my  child ;  and  when  I  seek  to  attain  that  good, 
I  am  treated  as  an  unreasonable  tyrant.  Shall  I 
submit  ? — Shall  I  tamely  yield  ? — Never  1  John 
•  2 


802  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

Hardy  is  not  the  man  to  be  driven  from  his  course 
by  a  woman." 

The  ringing  of  the  breakfast-hell  came  just  in 
tune  to  prevent  the  utterance  of  some  very  strong 
language  meditated  by  the  incensed  husband  and 
father.  The  gathering  at  the  table  was  a  .very 
embarrassed  one.  All  the  children,  except  the 
youngest,  comprehended  the  meaning  of  what 
their  father  had  said,  and  were  in  grief  for  their 
sister.  The  cloud  which  had  fallen  on  her  spirit 
shadowed  theirs. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  the  subject  during 
the  meal ;  indeed,  there  was  hardly  a  word  spoken 
by  any  one.  Mr.  Hardy  was  first  to  leave  the  table 

True  to  his  intentions,  the  unyielding  fathei 
spent  nearly  all  the  forenoon  in  making  inquiries 
from  persons  likely  to  be  well  informed  on  the 
subject,  relative  to  various  boarding-schools  for 
young  ladies.  Some  with  whom  he  conversed, 
spoke  strongly  against  the  practice  of  sending 
daughters  away  from  home  for  purposes  of  educa 
tion,  giving  it  as  their  opinion,  that  more  evil 
than  good  came  of  it  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten. 
Their  opinions,  being  adverse  to  his  own  designs, 
went  for  nothing.  The  views  of  some  others  ran 
quite  parallel  with  his,  and  by  these  he  was 
strengthened  and  encouraged. 

Satisfied,  at  last,  in  regard  to  one  of  the  schools 
about  which  inquiry  had  been  made,  he  wrote  to 


HELEN    SENT   TO    SCHOOL*  203 

the  principal  for  more  particular  information.  In 
three  or  four  days  he  received  an  answer,  with 
terms,  favourable  statements  in  regard  to  the 
institution,  and  a  list  of  influential  names  for  re 
ference.  The  school  was  two  hundred  miles  away. 
Several  of  the  parties  referred  to  occupied  pro 
minent  positions  in  the  community,  hut  lived  in 
distant  cities,  so  that  a  personal  application  to 
them  was  out  of  the  question.  It  did  not  occur 
to  Mr.  Hardy,  that  it  might  be  well  to  write  to 
one  or  two  of  these,  and  make  some  more  minute 
investigations.  Any  good  school  was,  in  his 
opinion,  preferable  to  the  existing  home-educa 
tion  ;  and  the  fact  that  these  gentlemen  had  per^ 
mi t ted  their  names  to  be  used  as  referees,  was 
altogether  conclusive  that  this  institution  was  of 
the  highest  order.  So  Mr.  Hardy  wrote  back 
that  he  would,  in  a  short  time,  send  or  bring  his 
daughter. 

"  There  is  too  much  weak  self-indulgence  at 
home,"  he  wrote.  "  An  invalid  mother,  with 
morbidly  sensitive  feelings,  is  not  calculated  to 
give  the  right  tone  to  her  children's  minds.  She 
may  be  loving  toward  them,  and  devoted  in  her 
cave1 :  but  she  cannot  be  wise  in  discipline.  Their 
sensibilities  may  develope  under  such  a  rule,  but 
what  is  gained  here  is  more  than  lost  in  enfueble- 
ment  of  character.  Daily  have  I  seen  the  evil 
effects  of  this  state  of  things  upon  the  mind  of  my 


204  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

eldest  daughter,  and  I  have  now  determined  to 
remove  her  from  influences  that,  if  continued, 
will  spoil  her  as  a  woman.  I  have  a  great  dislike 
to  your  one-sided  characters— to  your  men  and 
women  who  are  nothing  except  in  a  single  direc 
tion.  The  well-balanced  mind  is  the  true  one. 
Its  possessor  belongs  to  the  happiest  and  most 
useful  class  in  the  community.  I  wish  you  to 
give  my  daughter  a  good  training ;  to  depress 
the  over-matured  feelings,  and  to  encourage  the 
intellect  and  reason  ;  to  teach  her  to  think  and  to 
endure.  This  weeping  at  a  word,  and  starting 
at  the  hum  of  a  beetle,  all  appear  to  me  humi 
liating  weaknesses  ;  and  I  confess  to  having  no 
patience  with  them.  It  is  the  fact  of  their  en 
couragement,  rather  than  repression,  at  home, 
that  has  determined  me  to  remove  my  daughter 
from  such  enervating  influences.  I  shall  there 
fore  expect,  from  the  very  beginning,  a  firm 
course  of  treatment.  The  hot-house  plant  must 
grow  stronger  at  the  root  and  along  the  stem, 
that  it  may  put  out  vigorous  branches ;  and  this 
it  can  never  do,  while  it  remains  in  the  warm, 
pulseless  air  of  a  sheltered  conservatory.  I  shall 
rely  upon  your  firmness  and  your  judgment  in 
the  case." 

A  week  of  entire  silence  on  the  subject  which 
had  so  agitated  the  home-circle,  and  thrown  over 
all  hearts  therein  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  was 


HELEN    SENT   TO    SCHOOL.  205 

Buffered  to  pass  away;  and  then  Mr.  Hai/ly  an 
nounced  the  fact  that  he  had  made  arrangements 
to  send  Helen  from  home,  and  that  she  must  he 
ready  in  a  fortnight  to  enter  the  "  Hope  Institute 
for  Young-  Ladies,"  situated  in  a  quiet  village  ot 
New  York. 

What  his  daughter  suffered  then,  and  after 
wards,  in  consequence  of  this  coldly  calculated 
and  as  coldly  executed  purpose,  Mr.  Hardy  never 
knew,  and  never  could  know.  Her's  was  a 
nature,  the  comprehension  of  which  was  wholly 
ahove  the  region  of  his  perceptions.  His  own 
emotional  character  gave  him  the  only  standard 
by  which  to  judge  of  others ;  and  this  was  so 
sluggish  in  its  original  constitution,  and  so  obtuse 
through  selfishness,  that  all  feeling  in  those  around 
him  he  regarded  as  a  species  of  contemptible 
weakness.  -  In  the  world,  his  love  of  reputation 
made  him  put  on  an  appearance  mild  and  amiable, 
like  that  of  one  possessing  a  warmly  benevolent 
heart;  but  at  home,  he  trode  ruthlessly  upon  all 
weak  exhibitions  of  sensibility. 

As  was  just  said,  Mr.  Hardy  had  no  adequate 
conception  of  what  his  gentle,  loving-hearted, 
sensitive  child,  who  possessed  in  a  high  degree 
the  delif.ate  and  refined  organization  of  her  mother, 
would  necessarily  endure  in  her  rough  removal 
from  home,  and  as  rough  transplantation  i«i  a 
colder,  harder  soil,  and  an  ungenial  atmospUt-re 


206  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

The  life  of  Helen  was  so  bound  up  in  the  life 
and  love  of  her  mother,  that  no  separation  could 
take  place  without  the  acutest  suffering.  She 
had  always  been  shy  towards  strangers,  and  never 
cared  to  go  out  unless  accompanied  by  her  mother 
These  were  defects  that  needed  to  be  overcome, 
but  in  the  wisest  and  gentlest  manner.  To  crush 
them  out,  as  was  now  her  father's  purpose,  was 
an  impossible  thing,  without  destroying  the  child's 
life ;  and  the  effort  to  do  so  involved  cruelties, 
which  it  makes  the  heart  sad  to  think  of.  There 
was  no  way  in  which  he  could  rightly  have  ac 
complished  the  work  of  giving  her  character  more 
strength,  but  by  attaching  her  to  himself  through 
loving  acts,  and  then  under  the  shelter,  or  within 
the  circle  of  his  love,  bearing  her  out  into  the 
world,  and  letting  her  timid  nature  gain  con 
fidence.  If  the  home-influences  were  too  ener 
vating,  if  they  developed  her  character  in  a  one 
sided  manner,  it  was  for  him,  gently  and  lovingly, 
to  bring  her  within  the  circle  of  other  influences, 
and  to  let  her  breathe  by  degrees  a  more  invigor 
ating  atmosphere.  But  conciliation  towards  weak 
nesses  of  character,  as  he  regarded  them,  was  no 
part  of  John  Hardy's  home-discipline.  His  pride 
would  never  let  him  bend  to  that.  What  he,  in 
his  self-intelligence,  decided  to  be  right,  that  must 
be  done;  opposition  only  created  impatience,  and 
made  his  original  purposes  as  unbending  as  iron. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ehu 


"Disasters  come  not  singly, 
But  as  if  they  watch'd  and  waited, 
Scanning  one  another's  motions  ; 
When  the  first  descends,  the  others 
'Follow,  follow,  gathering  rloekwise 
Hound  their  victim,  sick  and  wounded  j 
First  a  slmdow;—  then  a  sorrow,  — 
Till  the  air  is  dark  with  anguish."—  LONGFELLOW. 

T«.fi  first  letter  received  by  Mr.  Hardy  from  the 
principal  of  the  school  to  which  Helen  was  sent, 
or  rather  taken  by  her  father,  had  in  it  this 
sentence  :  — 

"  So  far  we  have  been  unable  to  gain  any  en 
couraging  access  to  the  mind  of  your  daughter. 
It  is  just  one  week  since  you  left  her  here,  and 
she  has  scarcely  tasted  food,  or  ceased  weeping, 
during  the  whole  time.  I  am  afraid  that  she  will 
become  seriously  ill." 

Within  this  letter,  which  gave  -the  darker  shade 
of  the  picture,  was  contained  another  in  which 
Helen  was  spoken  of  as  getting  on  tolerably  well, 
and  becoming  daily  better  pleased  with  the  change. 
This  was  fr-r  the  mother's  eyes  !  How  the  con- 
tisteut  ''  th-loviug  John  Hardy  reconciled  tuu 


208  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

duplicity  with  his  strong  sense  of  right,  is  a  pro 
blem  we  will  not  stop  to  solve.     His  answer  was 
on  this  wise.     We  take  only  a  few  sentences  from 
his  letter  : — • 

"Time  and  perseverance  accomplish  all  things. 
The  state  of  my  daughter's  mind  only  illustrates 
what  I  said  to  you  concerning  the  morbid  develop 
ment  of  her  character  under  a  one-sided  home- 
influence.  You  see,  that  she  has  scarcely  any 
endurance,  self-reliance,  or  self-denial.  A  few 
years  longer  under  the  old  state  of  things,  and 
she  must  have  been  totally  ruined.  Be  firm  with 
her.  Do  not  abate  a  single  iota  in  the  rule  of 
conduct  required.  This  discipline  may  be  painful, 
but  it  must  be  salutary.  I  think  you  may  rest 
satisfied  of  one  thing,  that  her  external  condition 
is  more  grievous  than  her  internal  state.  I  will 
not  call  her  artful;  but  I  am  quite  ready  to 
believe,  that,  in  order  to  work  upon  all  our  feelings, 
she  will  assume  quite  as  much  as  she  endures,  and 
a  great  deal  more.  Be  patient  with  her  for  a  little 
while,  and  all  will  come  right." 

A  week  later,  and  the  principal  of  the  institute 
wrote : — "  I  cannot  say  that  there  is  any  change 
for  the  better.  Helen,  it  is  true,  comes  into  her 
class,  studies  the  lessons  we  assign  her,  and 
manifests  a  willingness  to  comply  with  all  the 
rules  of  the  school.  But  a  smile  has  never  been 
seen  on  her  sad  face;  and  in  no  instance  ha» 


HELEN    RETURNS    HOME.  209 

any  one  entered  her  room,  when  she  was  alone 
there,  without  finding  her  in  tears.  I  am  afraid 
of  the  effect  which  this  forced  removal  from  home 
may  have  upon  her  health." 

"  I  will  take  the  responsibility  as  to  her  health," 
wrote  back  Mr.  Hardy.  "  She  will  tire  of  weep 
ing  in  the  end.  The  fact  that  she  is  giving  her 
mind  to  her  studies,  I  regard  as  an  encouraging 
one.  It  is  to  increased  mental  activity  that  I  look 
for  the  beginning  of  a  salutary  change.  As  her 
thoughts  become  more  and  more  engaged  with  the 
realities  presented  in  her  lessons,  sentimental  feel 
ing  will  subside.  I  am  encouraged." 

Helen  wrote  every  week  to  her  mother:  this 
was  as  often  as  the  father  would  permit.  The 
letters  came  through  his  hands,  and  were  sup 
pressed.  A  single  paragraph,  extracted  from  the 
first  of  these,  will  show  their  tenour,  and  the  state 
of  mind  in  which  she  wrote  : — 

"  I  am  trying  to  be  patient,  and  to  study. 
Everybody  is  kind  to  me,  and  everybody  seems  to 
pity  me.  I  am  very  unhappy.  O  mother !  dear 
mother  !  Can't  you  come  and  see  me  ?  I  would 
give  the  world  to  look  into  your  face  again,  and 
feel  your  arms  around  my  neck.  Ask  father  to 
let  you  come.  Tell  him  that  if  he  will  just  let  you 
visit  me  once,  I  shall  be  a  great  deal  better  after 
wards.  Oil,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  die,  ii 
I  do  not  see  you." 


210  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

Mr.  Hardy  crumpled  the  letter  in  his  hand 
impatiently,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire. 

"  Die  !"  he  muttered,  half  in  contempt.  "  How 
soon  the  girl  puts  on  the  woman!  Women  are 
always  going  to  die,  if  things  don't  shape  them 
selves  to  their  wishes.  But  dying  is  not  so  easily 
accomplished ! " 

Two,  three,  four,  five  weeks  went  slowly  hy, 
dragging  to  the  heart-sick  child  their  weary  train 
of  hours  along ;  and,  in  all  that  time,  there  came 
not  a  single  line  or  token  from  her  mother.  Her 
father's  letters,  filled  with  good  advice,  and  written 
quite  as  much  for  the  eyes  of  the  principal  of  the 
school  as  for  her  own,  came  regularly,  but  they 
had  not  a  word  in  them  about  her  mother. 
Rendered  desperate  at  last,  the  poor  child  wrote 
these  brief  words  to  her  father : — 

"  I  am  coming  home.  I  do  not  wish  to  disobey 
you,  and  therefore  shall  not  wait  for  you  to  forbid 
my  coming.  You  can  punish  me  in  any  manner 
that  you  think  I  deserve.  But  no  punishment 
is  so  fearful  to  think  of  as  what  I  now  endure. 

HELEN." 

Two  days  after  this  letter  was  written,  Helen 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  her  father's  house,  and 
on  being  admitted  by  the  astonished  servant, 
rushed  wildly  up-stairs,  calling  out, — "  Mother ! 
Mother  !  Dear  mother  !  Where  are  you,  mother  ?" 

But  the  mother's  voice  answered  not      Into  the 


HELEN    RETURNS    HOME.  21 

nursery  she  burst,  with  the  word  "  Mother ! "  flung 
eagerly  from  her  lips.  There  were  all  her  sisters 
and  brothers,  and  a  strange  but  matronly-looking 
woman  sitting  among  them. 

"  Oh,  Helen  ! "  exclaimed  the  sisters  in  surprise, 
starting  forward  to  meet  her. 

"  Where  is  mother?"  cried  the  bewildered  girl. 
"  Oh,  where  is  mother?"  A  sudden  pallor  over 
spread  her  face. 

"  Your  mother  is  not  here,"  said  the  strange 
woman,  rising  and  coming  towards  Helen. 

"  Where  is  she  ? "  A  wild,  demanding  emphasis 
was  in  the  young  girl's  voice. 

"  Mother  is  ill,  and  they  took  her  away  from 
here  last  week,"  said  one  of  the  younger  children. 

There  was  a  meaning  in  this  answer  instantly 
comprehended,  and  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  that 
chilled  the  heart  of  the  stranger,  Helen  fell  back 
wards.  The  woman  caught  her  in  her  arms,  ere 
her  form  struck  the  floor. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  sent  for  instantly, — also  the 
family-physician.  The  anger  of  the  former,  when 
he  saw  Helen  at  home,  was  stronger  than  his  pity, 
and  stronger  than  his  alarm  at  the  condition  in 
which  he  found  her.  He  had  not  really  believed 
her  threat.  The  serious  air  of  the  physician,  and 
the  grave,  searching  nature  of  his  queries,  soou 
changed  the  character  of  Mr.  Hardy's  feelings. 
Dr.  Fairfax  pressed  upon  him  question  after  qucs- 


THE   WITHEK.ED    HEART. 

lion  in  regard  to  Helen's  state  of  mind  at  school, 
as  well  as  the  causes  of  her  sudden  return  against 
the  wishes  of  her  father ;  and  did  it  so  closely  and 
rapidly,  that  considerably  more  was  admitted  by 
Mr.  Hardy  than  he  liked  to  own,  or  than  he  would 
have  owned,  if  he  had  not  been  thrown  oif  his 
guard. 

"  This  is  a  serious  matter,"  remarked  the  phy 
sician,  as  he  sat  looking  anxiously  into  the  thin, 
death-like  face  of  the  child.  "  Helen  is  of  too 
bensitive  an  organization  to  come  into  rough  con 
tact  with  the  world,  or  to  bear  a:iy  sudden  shocks 
Did  she  know  of  her  mother's  illness?" 

"  Not  a  word,  until  now,"  was  answered. 

The  physician  asked  no  more  questions,  but  set 
himself  earnestly  to  the  work  of  restoration.  In 
about  an  hour,  Helen  was  so  far  recovered  as  to 
recognise  her  sisters.  Returning  consciousness 
was  followed  by  violent  weeping. 

Mr.  Hardy  had  been  taken  from  the  room  by 
the  doctor,  so  soon  as  signs  of  life  were  observed ; 
and,  when  they  were  alone,  the  latter  said — 

"  As  far  as  I  am  able  to  understand  your 
daughter's  case,  it  appears  that  she  has  left  school 
without  your  consent,  and  returned  home;  and 
this  while  in  entire  ignorance  of  her  mother's 
unhappy  condition,  the  first  intimations  of  winch, 
on  her  arrival,  so  shocked  her  feelings  as  fo  pro 
duce  a  state  of  unconsciousness.  Now,  justly 


HELEN    RETURNS   HOME.  213 

displeased  as  you  may  be  on  account  of  her  dis 
obedience,  let  me  caution  you  not  to  say  anything 
on  the  subject  at  present.  There  is  no  calculating 
the  mental  injury  she  may  already  have  sustained; 
and  if  you  add  to  her  sufferings  the  smart  of  your 
displeasure,  the  worst  consequences  may  follow 
Poor  child  !  To  what  a  sad  consciousness  is  she 
now  returning !  '* 

Mr.  Hardy  promised  all  that  the  physician 
required.  The  serious  tone  and  countenance  with 
which  the  latter  had  admonished  him,  forced  into 
his  mind  some  unpleasant  convictions.  Doubts 
also  intruded  themselves.  He  might  have  been 
too  rigid  in  the  execution  of  his  purposes.  But 
he  bad  "  meant  all  for  the  best." 

"When  the  doctor  returned  to  the  chamber  where 
he  had  left  Helen  with  her  attendants,  he  went  in. 
alone, — Mr.  Hardy,  at  his  request,  remaining 
behind.  She  was  so  far  restored  as  to  recognise 
him  instantly ;  and  her  first  words,  as  he  bent  over 
her,  were : — 

"  Does  father  know  that  I  am  here?" 

"  Yes,  he  knows  it." 

"  Tell  him  not  to  send  me  back  to  school,  Doctor, 
will  you  ?"  She  spoke  in  an  imploring  voice,  and 
raised  nerself  partly  from  the  pillow  as  she  spoke. 
"  1  can't  go  there  again, — I  would  rather  die  ! " 

"  He  will  not  send  you  back,  llekn,"  replied 
the  doctor  confidently. 


214  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"He  is  very  angry  with  me;  I  know  he  is!' 
she  whispered,  looking  with  a  terrified  countenance 
towards  the  door.  "But  I  couldn't  help  coining 
home,  Doctor.  I  wanted  to  see  my  mother  so  much 
— my  mother,  from  whom  not  one  word  had  come 
to  me  from  the  hour  I  left  her !  O  Doctor  !  where 
is  she  ?  Tell  me !  for  I  must  know  ! "  And  her 
eyes  glanced  wildly  about  the  room. 

As  best  he  could,  the  doctor  soothed  and  assured 
her;  and  then  commanded  absolute  repose  and 
silence.  But  how  easy  to  command  these  ! — how 
fruitless,  at  times,  the  command !  As  well  might 
we  say  to  the  heart,  "  Cease  your  pulsations,  and 
yet  give  life  to  the  body  ! "  Helen  could  not  rest 
— could  not  be  silent.  "  Where  is  my  mother  ? 
Tell  me  of  my  mother ! "  This  was  her  incessant  cry. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  very  ill,"  said  the 
doctor.  But  for  this,  she  would  have  written  to 
you." 

"  Why  did  they  not  tell  me  of  it  ?  Why  did 
they  not  send  for  me  ? "  she  demanded,  in  so  firm 
and  self-possessed  a  voice,  that  the  doctor  looked 
at  her  thin,  pale,  almost  child-like  face,  with 
surprise. 

"You  could  not  have  helped  her  by  your  pre 
sence.  It  was,  therefore,  thought  wisest  not  -o 
distress  you  by  the  painful  intelligence." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ? " 

The  doctor  was  silent 


HELEN    RETURNS   HOME.  215 

"  Is  she  in  the  house?" 

"  No." 

"In  the  Asylum?" 

"  My  dear  child !"  said  the  kind  doctor,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  excited  girl,  and  gently  hearing 
her  back  upon  the  pillow  from  which  she  had 
arisen,  "  this  must  not  be !  You  do  yourself  great 
harm.  Wait  until  you  are  better  and  stronger, — 
then  I  will  answer  all  your  questions." 

"  I  shall  never  be  better  nor  stronger,  Doctor, 
until  the  questions  are  answered,"  was  the  firm 
reply.  "  Is  my  mother  in  the  Asylum  ? " 

"  She  is." 

A  quick  shudder  ran  through  the  poor  girl's 
frame :  and  her  white  face  turned  to  a  move  deathly 
hue.  Her  dark  lashes  fell  slowly  upon  her  checks, 
hiding  the  glassy  lustre  of  her  eyes.  The  hands, 
lying  across  her  bosom,  drew  together ;  and  the 
fingers  united  in  a  firm  clasp,  as  of  one  in  prayer 
And  she  did  pray,  for  the  lips  moved  in  the  sight 
of  those  who  looked  tearfully  upon  he*.  For  a 
long  time,  there  was  no  change  in  her  position ; 
but  a  visible  change  slowly  passed  over  her  counte 
nance.  It  became  more  tranquil.  At  last,  un 
closing  her  eyes,  she  looked  up  to  the  doctor,  who 
still  remained  at  the  bedside,  and  said  in  a  low. 
steady  voice — 

"  I  will  do  ail  that  you  require."  Then  draw 
ing  liis  head  down,  she  whispered — 


216  THE   WITHERED    HEAKT 

"  Be  my  friend,  Doctor.    Oh  !  be  my  friend  !" 

"  Trust  me,  dear  child,"  replied  the  physician, 
moved  by  this  appeal.  "  I  am,  and  will  be,  your 
true  friend." 

"  How  is  she,  Doctor  ?"  asked  Mr.  Hardy  calmly, 
as  the  physician  came  from  the  sick  chamber. 

"  She  is  in  a  quiet,  and,  I  trust,  promising  con 
dition.     If  all  disturbing  causes  are  withdrawn, 
we  may  hope  for  a  speedy  recovery." 

"  I  am  afraid,  when  she  learns  all  the  truth 
about  her  mother,  that  the  effect  will  be  in 
jurious." 

"  She  has  already  guessed  the  truth.'* 

Mr.  Hardy  sighed  deeply. 

"  Let  me  advise,"  said  the  doctor,  "  your  entire 
silence  on  this,  and  every  other  subject  calculated 
to  disturb  her  mind.  Leave  her  entirely  in  my 
hands,  and  trust,  as  far  as  you  can,  to  my  judg 
merit  in  her  case.  There  is  mental  as  well  as 
bodily  sickness,  and  a  true  physician  should 
minister  to  both." 

"  She  is  in  your  hands,"  replied  Mr.  Hardy, 
almost  meekly.  "  I  trust  you  with  the  fullest 
confidence." 

When  the  doctor  came  the  next  morning,  he 
was  surprised  to  find  Helen  sitting  up,  and  look 
ing,  except  for  her  pale  face,  but  little  like  an 
invalid.  Two  of  her  sisters,  and  the  stranger 
before  mentioned,  were  in  the  rooni 


HELEN    RETURNS   HOME. 

"  I  wish  to  see  you  alone,  Doctor,"  said  Helen, 
a  IK  tie  while  after  his  entrance.  Those  wha  were 
in  the  room  with  them  took  the  hint,  and  jotired. 
There  was  a  womanly  self-possession  about  the 
slender  girl  that  astonished  the  physician. 

"  I  have  asked  110  questions  of  any  one  al^out 
my  mother,"  she  began,  "  since  I  received  from 
you,  yesterday,  the  information  I  sought.  Now, 
I  wish  you  to  tell  me  all  about  her.  The  cause  of 
her  affliction  I  believe  I  know." 

"  Do  you  ?"  The  physician's  face  lighted  in 
stantly.  "  Then  I  ought  to  know  it  also ;  for  on 
that  knowledge,  almost  solely,  may  depend  her 
r.ure.  Speak  to  me  freely,  my  child." 

"  We  should  never  have  been  separated,  Doctor. 
We  cannot  live  apart.  If  she  suffered  all  that  I 
suffered,  weak  as  she  was  at  the  time  I  was  forced 
away,  I  do  not  wonder  at  the  dreadful  con 
sequences." 

"Could  that  have  been  the  cause,  Helen?" 
The  doctor  seemed  half  incredulous. 

"  If  you  had  seen  my  mother's  face,  as  I  saw  it, 
when  I  looked  upon  it  last,  you  would  not  doubt 
for  <i  moment.  We  should  never  have  been  sepa- 
niti-d.  But  I  say  this  only  to  you,  Doctor.  Father 
was  wrong — he  was  hard — he  was  cruel ;  but  only 
in  your  cars  do  I  speak  this;  and  it  is  for  your 
ears  alone.  He  meant  right, — father  meant  right. 
But  tell  me  how  she  is  ?  " 


218  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  Her  mind  has  sadly  wandered,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Ahout  a  week  after  you  went  away,  I 
was  sent  for,  and  found  her  in  a  strange  condition. 
She  had  not  slept,  they  told  me,  for  a  great  many 
nights.  There  was  a  wild  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  had  a  rambling  way  of  talking.  She  was 
dressed  as  if  to  go  out,  with  the  exception  of  not 
having  on  a  bonnet ;  and  she  told  me,  in  a  confi 
dential  way,  that  she  had  been  made  a  prisoner  in 
the  house  by  your  father,  and  that  she  knew  he 
wished  to  kill  her,  and  would  do  so  unless  she 
could  get  away.  I  did  all  I  could  to  quiet  her 
fears ;  and  for  her  sleepless  condition,  I  prescribed 
powerful  anodynes.  On  the  second  day  sleep 
came,  and  she  remained  under  the  influence  of 
morphine  for  three  days.  But  her  mind  was  yet 
astray.  There  still  remained  the  idea  that  she 
was  a  prisoner,  and  her  life  in  danger.  About  two 
weeks  ago,  she  was  discovered  in  the  act  of  leap 
ing  from  a  window.  I  advised  that  she  should  be 
immediately  removed  to  the  Asylum,  which  was 
done." 

"  How  is  she  now?"  asked  the  eager  listener, 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  ceased  speaking. 

"  Not  as  well  as  I  could  wish ;  yet,  for  the  most 
part,  she  is  in  a  tranquil  state." 

"  Doctor," — Helen's  manner  was  firm — "  I  musl 
go  to  her,  and  remain  with  her  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 


HELEN   RETURNS   HOME.  219 

"Don't  say,  No:"  she  spoke  with  pleading 
eaniestness.  "  The  first  wrong  step  was  in  oui 
separation  ; — that  must  be  retraced.  Let  us  begin 
here,  if  we  would  begin  right.  There  is  no  other 
hope."  • 

The  doctor  looked  at  the  young  girl,  as  hei 
form  seemed  to  rise  into  womanly  dignity,  with 
a  feeling  of  amazement  and  admiration.  Convic 
tion  forced  itself  upon  his  mind.  He  saw  that  she 
was  right. 

"  We  must  wait  a  few  days  until  you  are 
stronger,"  said  he ;  "  the  trial  will  be  severe." 

"  Fearful  consequences  hang  on  every  hour," 
replied  Helen  firmly,  and  with  a  maturity  of 
expression  that  more  than  ever  surprised  the 
doctor.  "  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  I 
am  as  strong  for  this  duty  to-day,  as  I  shall  ever 
be — nay,  stronger." 

"  I  must  consult  your  father." 

"  He  will  not  consent,  and  the  matter  will  only 
be  made  worse." 

The  physician  pondered  for  some  moments. 
He  saw,  he  felt,  that  Helen  was  right ;  yet 
his  slower  judgment  came  but  tardily  to  the 
approval. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  strong  enough  to  bear 
this  trial  ?"  he  asked,  with  manifest  concern. 

"  Stronger  to  bear  that  than  to  endure  a  singlt 
hour's  absence  from  my  dear,  dear  mother  1  O 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

Doctor  !  take  me  to  her  at  once      I  feel  as  if  my 
heart  would  burst  -with  impatience  ! " 

The  good  physician  hesitated  no  longer,  but 
gave  his  consent ;  and,  as  soon  as  Helen  could 
be  made  ready  to  accompany  him,  took  her  in  his 
janiage,  and  drove  her  out  to  the  Asylum. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


Op\.  "  I  hope  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be  patient,  but  I  cannot  choma 
Kit  weep  .....  I  thank  you  for  your  good  counsel.  Come,  my  coach  1  Good 
night,  ladies;  good-night,  sweet  ladies;  good-night,  good-night." 

Kg.  "  Follow  her  close  :  give  her  good  watch,  I  pray  yon. 
Oh  !  this  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief  1  "  —  Sa  AKSPEAKE. 

SOMEWFIAT  to  the  doctor's  disappointment,  Helen 
was  silent  and  abstracted  all  the  way.  He  wished 
to  give  her  many  directions,  and  to  suggest  many 
cautions.  He  expected  her  to  refer  to  him,  and 
ask  instruction  as  to  the  best  way  of  accosting 
her  mother,  and  the  best  way  of  dealing  with 
her;  and  he  had  thought  out  what  seemed  to 
him  a  judicious  course  of  conduct.  But  while  he 
waited  for  her  to  inquire  of  him,  she  was  inquir 
ing  of  a  safer  and  wiser  teacher,  by  lifting  up  her 
heart  in  silent  prayer. 

Up  the  long  avenue  of  trees  leading  to  the 
"Asylum,"  the  doctor's  carriage  passed,  and  he 
was  at  the  entrance-gate  without  having  made 
any  arrangement  with  Helen  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  they  should  approach  her  mother. 
C 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

"  I  will  visit  her  first,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he 
conducted  Helen  into  one  of  the  ante-rooms. 
"  You  remain  here,  while  I  see  the  matron  and 
ascertain  what  is  her  present  state  of  mind." 

"  Does  she  know  you  ?"  asked  Helen. 

"  Yes,  and  talks  to  me  very  sanely  sometimes." 

"  Then  she  will  know  me  ! "  Helen's  face 
brightened. 

The  doctor  left  her,  but  soon  returned  to  bring 
word  that  her  mother  was  sleeping.  The  matron 
said  that  she  had  been  unusually  restless  all  the 
morning,  and  had  wept  a  great  deal,  mentioning, 
for  the  first  time,  the  name  of  her  daughter 
Helen,  and  complaining  that  she  had  deserted 
her  like  all  the  rest  of  her  friends. 

"  I  will  go  to  her,  and  remain  with  her  alone 
until  she  wakes,"  said  Helen. 

The  doctor  looked  doubtful,  and  appealed  to 
the  mati'on. 

"Do  not  say,  No!" 

The  matron  gazed  with  something  of  wonder 
upon  the  slender  girl. 

"  Do  not  say,  No ! "  repeated  Helen.  "  Take 
me  to  my  mother,  and  leave  me  alone  with  her." 

"  It  may  be  best,"  said  the  matron ;  and  she 
conducted  Helen  to  the  room  where  the  invalid 
lay  in  a  deep  sleep.  One  look  at  the  changed, 
wan  face,  buried  deep  in  the  pillow,  caused  tear* 
to  blind  Helen's  eyes,  and  wet  her  cheeks.  The 


THE   ASYLUM.  223 

impulse  to  throw  herself  upon  her  mother's  bosom, 
arid  cover  her  lips  with  kisses  was  so  strong,  that 
she  could  with  difficulty  restrain  herself.  How 
full  was  her  heart  of  yearning  love — of  tenderness 
— of  pity !  How  all  the  affections  of  her  soul 
\vent  out  to  this  dear  mother!  But  self-control 
was  maintained.  Love  made  her  strong.  After 
gazing  upon  that  beloved  form  for  some  time  in 
silence,  she  turned  aside ;  and,  removing  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  smoothed  back  her  hair,  and 
made  preparations  to  remain  with  her  mother. 
After  a  few  whispered  words,  the  matron  retired, 
and  left  her  alone  with  the  sleeper. 

How  very  rapidly  had  Helen  grown  old  in  the 
last  few  days !  From  a  weak,  suffering  girl, 
yearning  to  fly  back -to  her  mother's  side,  that 
she  might  bury  her  face  in  her  bosom,  feel  her 
protecting  arms  around  her,  and  hear  the  tones 
of  love  fall  once  more  on  her  ears,  she  had  changed 
almost  into  a  thoughtful  woman.  The  clinging 
vine  had  suddenly  gained  strength,  and  was  now 
offering,  instead  of  claiming  support.  As  she  sat 
looking  upon  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  did  not 
revolve  in  her  thoughts  the  words  best  to  be 
spoken  when  the  deep  slumber  now  locking  up 
the  external  senses  should  break,  an  1  the  soul 
look  forth  again  upon  the  outer  world.  She  left 
it  all  for  the  time  when  words  were  needed.  Hci 
heart  would  be  the  wisest  prompter. 


224  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour,  Helen  kept  hev  \ti*ce 
by  the  sleeper,  scarcely  moving  the  whole  time. 
At  the  end  of  this  period,  there  were  signs  of 
restlessness.  These  subsided,  and  all  was  still 
again.  Helen  had  turned  from  the  bed,  and 
stood  gazing  from  the  window,  when  a  movement 
caused  her  to  look  round.  The  eyes  of  her  mother 
were  open.  What  a  thrill  went  along  every  nerve ! 
Neither  spoke ;  but  their  eyes  rested  on  each  other 
with  something  of  a  mutual  fascination.  Helen 
felt,  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  she  had  lost  the 
power  to  breathe. 

Slowly  the  mother  rose  up  in  hed,  still  keeping 
her  eyes  upon  her  daughter's  face,  with  some 
thing  of  curious  wonder  in  the  expression  of 
her  own. 

"  Helen ! "  The  name  was  uttered  in  a  low 
whisper.  "  Helen  ! "  she  repeated,  as  her  face 
came  nearer  to  the  face  of  her  child. 

It  was  almost  superhuman  self-control  that 
enabled  Helen  to  repress  the  impulse  which  would 
have  led  her  to  throw  herself,  with  a  wild  excla 
mation,  upon  her  mother's  breast. 

"  Dear  mo* her  !'"  She  spoke  in  a  whisper,  and 
very,  very  <  almly.  Love  gave  her  the  wisdom 
to  perceiv?  what  to  do,  and  the  power  to  act 
right. 

What  a  gleam  of  joy  was  flung  into  the  mother's 
face,  as  the  tones  of  her  child,  even  in  a  faint 


THE  ASYLUM.  225 

whisper,  entered  her  ears,  and  were  reoognised  hy 
her  heart. 

"  Helen  !  Helen !  dear  Helen  Oh,  is  it  indeed 
my  precious  one?" 

"  Dear,  dear  mother ! " — Helen  still  maintained 
her  eelf-control ; — "  I  am  with  you  again  ;  and 
Avill  always  he  with  you." 

"  Not  here !  no,  not  here ! "  And  shadows  fell 
over  the  mother's  face.  "  They  won't  let  you 
stay  here." 

"  Then  I  will  take  you  away,"  said  Helen, 
firmly;  "for  I  am  never  going  to  leave  you  any 
more." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad ! — so  glad ! "  And  light  re 
turned  to  the  mother's  countenance. 

Helen  kissed  her  lips  tenderly,  but  not  with  the 
wild  impulse  that  was  in  her  heart;  and  said — 

"  I  am  to  be  your  nurse  until  you  get  well ;  the 
doctor  says  so." 

"  Did  he  ?  I'm  so  glad  ! — so  glad ! "  repeating 
her  words  with  a  kind  of  childish  delight. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  all  arranged :  and  I'll  make  you 
such  a  good  nurse.  Oh!  you  shall  be  well  in  a 
little  while." 

With  an  instinct  beyond  her  years,  the  daughter 
had  understood  her  mother's  true  state,  and  with 
a  wisdom  and  self-command  equally  beyond  her 
years,  had  met  that  state  in  the  right  manner  and 

with  the  right  words, 
u  2 


THE   WITHERED  HEART. 

'  I've  been  very  ill  since  I  saw  you,  dear.  I 
doiA  know  what's  been  the  matter  with  me, — but, 
I'vt  been  very  ill.  I'm  getting  better  now,  and 
the  doctor  says  I  shall  soon  be  well  again." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are  a  great  deal  better,"  replied 
Helen,  <vith  smiling  encouragement ;  "  and,  as  I 
am  to  te  your  nurse,  you  will  grow  better  very 
fast."  A  shower  of  kisses  followed  the  words. 

"  I  waifxi,  no  other  medicine.  Your  kisses  will 
make  me  jyell,"  said  the  mother,  light  playing 
again  over  her  countenance. 

"  As  I  a>n  now  your  nurse,  I  must  enjoin  free 
dom  from  ail  excitement,"  remarked  Helen,  gently 
pressing  bac  t  the  form  of  her  mother,  until  her 
head  rested  upon  the  pillow  from  which  she  had 
arisen.  "  Ajid  you  will  be,  I  know,  the  best  of 
patients." 

Mrs.  Har«fy  made  no  resistance.  Indeed,  the 
little  authority  assumed  by  her  daughter  rathei 
pleased  than  annoyed  her.  From  the  curious 
way  in  which  she  looked  up  into  her  face,  it  was 
plain  that  some  thoughts  of  a  puzzling  character 
were  flitting  through  her  mind.  "  I  don't  know 
why  you  stayed  away  so  long,"  she  at  length 
remarked. 

"  They  wouldn't  let  me  come.  That  was  the 
reason,"  replied  Helen. 

"  Who  wouldn't  let  you  come  ?" 

Now  this  was  a  question  which  Helen  felt  it 


THE   ASYLUM. 

difficult  t)  meet;  for  the  answer  might  do  harm. 
So  she  remained  silent. 

"  Oh,  well,  you  needn't  say  who  it  was.  I 
know  all  ahout  it.  It  isn't  right  for  children  to 
speak  against  their  father.  He's  your  father, 
dear ;  and  the  Bible  tells  us  to  honour  our 
parents.  Yes,  it  was  his  work.  I  know  all 
ahout  it.  He  tried  to  kill  me ;  hut  God  wouldn't 
let  him." 

The  blood  seemed  to  grow  cold  in  Helen's  veins, 
as  she  listened.  But  she  commanded  herself,  and 
replied  in  a  soothing  voice — 

"  We  won't  think  any  more  about  that,  mother ; 
it  will  only  make  us  feel  unhappy.  The  doctor 
is  on  our  side ;  and  he  won't  let  anybody  separate 
us  again. 

At  this  moment,  Helen's  glance  fell  upon  a 
Bible ;  and,  almost  without  thinking,  she  said — 

"  I  used  to  read  to  you  out  of  the  Bible,  when 
I  was  a  little  girl.  Don't  you  remember  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember."  The  shadows  were 
instantly  gone  from  Mrs.  Hardy's  face. 

"  Shall  I  read  to  you  again  ?"  Helen  stepped 
across  the  room,  and  brought  back  the  Bible  in 
her  hand. 

"  Yes,  love." 

Helen  opened  the  book ;  and,  in  a  low,  reverent 
voice,  read  one  of  the  beautiful  parables  of  our 
Lord.  Mrs.  Hardy  listened  with  earnest  atteu 


228  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

tion.  and  when  her  daughter  paused,  looked  up 
and  said — 

"  Head  on,  dear." 

For  nearly  twenty  minutes,  Helen  sat  and  read 
from  the  Holy  Book,  her  mother  lying  all  the 
while  as  still  as  a  sleeping  infant.  The  doctor 
and  the  matron,  anxious  to  know  the  effect  of 
Helen's  presence  upon  her  mother,  had  several 
imes  come  near  the  door,  and  gained  some  idea 
of  what  was  passing  without  giving  any  sign  of 
their  presence.  They  returned  again  at  this  period, 
and  hoth  were  much  affected  hy  what  they  saw 
and  heard.  Retiring  noiselessly,  they  consulted 
as  to  what  was  now  hest  to  he  done.  The  doctor's 
time  was  limited ;  and  it  was  impossible  to  re 
main  any  longer  without  neglecting  patients  who 
needed  his  attention ;  hut  yet  'hoth  deemed  it 
unwise  at  present  to  intrude  upon  Helen  and 
her  mother.  It  Avas  finally  concluded,  that  the 
doctor  should  return  to  the  city,  and  come  out 
again  late  in  the  afternoon. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  matron  went  to 
see  how  Mrs.  Hardy  was  going  on.  She  found 
her  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  with  Helen 
leaning  upon  her  arm. 

"  Good  morning!"  said  Mrs.  Hardy,  smiling 
cheerfully.  "  You  see  I  have  a  visitor, — my 
daughter ! " 

"  Good  morning,  dear ! "  returned  the  matron, 


THE   ASYLUM. 

advancing,  and  taking  the  hand  of  the  young 
gill.  "I  am  happy  to  meet  you;  and  hope  you 
have  come  to  spend  some  time  with  us." 

"Oh,  yes;  she's  going  to  stay,"  said  Mrs. 
Hardy,  quickly.  "  Helen  is  my  eldest  daughter," 
she  added,  fondly  bending  down  and  looking  into 
her  face.  "  She's  heen  away  from  home,  and 
has  just  returned.  Isn't  she  a  dear  girl  ?" 

"  Indeed  she  is,"  replied  the  matron ;  "  I  don't 
wonder  that  you  are  proud  of  her.  You  must 
take  her  round  and  show  her  our  beautiful  place. 
There  isn't  a  lovelier  spot  anywhere." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'm  going  to  show  her  everything," 
said  Mrs.  Hardy.  "  It  will  he  so  delightful !" 

Pleased  at  the  suggestion,  Mrs.  Hardy  called 
for  a  hood,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  out  in  the 
garden,  with  Helen  leaning  on  her  arm.  For 
nearly  two  hours  they  s;it  or  walked  amid  the 
flowers,  trees,  and  shrubberies,  the  mind  of  the 
invalid  interested  all  the  while  in  pointing  out 
new  beauties  to  her  daughter.  At  the  end  of  this 
time,  some  remark  dropped  by  Helen  made  the 
mother's  thoughts  revert  to  her  little  children  at 
home,  and  all  the  yearning  k  .re  of  her  soul  quick 
ened  into  instant  life.  Tears  began  to  rain  down 
her  checks,  and  sobs  to  convulse  her  bosom. 

"  We  must  go  home,  Helen,"  said  she,  with 
so  firm  a  purpose  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  that 
Helen's  heart  began  to  tremble.  "  I  have  beeu 


230  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

away  from  the  children  a  long  time,  and  it  is 
not  right.  I  wonder  where  the  doctor  is?  He 
brought  me  here  this  morning,  and  left  me  while 
he  went  to  see  some  patients  in  the  house.  lie 
is  spending  a  long  time  with  them.  Come !  let 
us  go  in,  and  see  what  detains  him." 

"  He  has,  I  believe,  gone  back  to  the  city,' 
Helen  ventured  to  say ;  "  but  he  will  be  out  again 
before  evening.  He  had  some  patients  there  that 
needed  to  be  seen." 

"  Gone  back  to  the  city ! "  Mrs.  Hardy  looked 
confounded.  "  That  is  strange  conduct !  I  don't 
understand  it." 

There  was  no  vacancy  in  her  countenance,  but 
an  earnest  displeasure. 

Greatly  to  Helen's  relief,  she  saw  the  matron 
approaching  them,  and  said  with  some  presence 
of  mind — 

"  Let  us  ask  this  lady  about  the  doctor."  The 
matron  came  up,  and  Helen  managed  to  convey 
to  her  a  look  and  gesture  of  warning. 

"  I  don't  exactly  understand  this,  madam," 
said  Mrs.  Hardy.  "  My  daughter  tells  me  that 
Doctor  Fairfax  has  returned  to  the  city." 

"He  has;  but  will  soon  be  back  again,"  was 
replied  in  a  polite,  rather  deferential  manner,  as 
if  she  were  speaking  to  a  stranger. 

"It  was  very  wrong  in  Imn,  and  I  am  seriously 
displeased  My  children  will  be  in  trouble  about 


THE   ASYLUM.  231 

my  long  absence.  Is  there  not  any  way  for  me 
to  get  back  to  the  city  before  he  finds  it  con 
venient  to  return  ?" 

"  None,  I  believe,  madam.  Our  carriage  is 
away,  and  will  not  be  back  till  evening." 

"  It  is  too  bad !  I  don't  see  what  the  doctor 
means  by  taking  this  liberty  with  me." 

"  He  thought  you  would  enjoy  a  few  hours  in 
this  delightful  place,"  said  Helen;  "  and  as  he 
had  to  go  back  to  the  city  very  soon,  he  did  not 
wish  to  hurry  you  away.  He  will  make  it  all 
plain  enough  when  he  returns,  you  may  be 
certain." 

"  Doctor  Fairfax  is  something  of  an  oddity, 
you  know,"  remarked  the  matron ;  "  and  often 
takes  professional  liberties  with  his  patients.  You 
have  been  on  the  invalid's  list  for  some  time,  and 
have  coniined  yourself  too  closely  at  home,  with 
your  children.  Change,  fresh  air,  country  sights 
and  sounds,  the  doctor  thought  indispensable; 
and  so  he  has  cheated  you  into  their  enjoyment 
for  a  few  hours.  It  was  something  of  a  liberty,  I 
must  admit ;  and  I  would  scold  him  well  for  it. 
But  now  that  you  are  in  this  pleasant  place,  with 
so  much  light  and  beauty  around  you,  it  would 
be  as  well  to  act  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  draw 
from  them  health  of  mind  and  body." 

"  Just  what  I  would  say,  dear  mother!"  joined 
in  Helen.  "  The  children  will  do  well  enough. 


232  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

Let  us  enjoy  this  beautiful  country  scenery,  and 
these  delicious  odours.  Are  not  the  garden-walks 
delightful;  the  flowers  pleasant  to  look  upon; 
:he  cooling  .shadows  of  these  great  trees  like 
blessings  of  peace  from  heaven  ?" 

Mrs.  Hardy  turned  to  her  daughter  with  a  look 
of  wonder,  and  said — 

"  Why,  Helen  dear,  you  talk  like  a  grown-up 
woman,  instead  of  a  girl ! " 

"  Do  I  ? "  She  smiled  lovingly  upon  her  mother. 
1  Tt  is  the  scene  that  has  inspired  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  everything  in  as  beautiful 
a  light  as  you  do,  my  dear.  But  I  see  only  the 
children  at  home,  from  whom  it  seems  as  if  I  had 
been  parted  for  an  age ;  and  I  only  desire  to  re 
turn  to  them.  How  soon  will  the  doctor  be  back  ?" 

She  turned  with  an  anxious  look  to  the  matron. 

"  In  about  an  hour." 

"  An  hour !  ari  hour ! "  she  repeated  the  Avords. 
*  Well,  it  was  not  right,  and  I  am  very  much 
displeased  with  him." 

"  Won't  you  come  in  and  take  some  refresh 
ment  ?"  said  the  matron ;  "  you  have  been  walk 
ing  here  for  a  long  time,  and  must  be  fatigued." 

"  Yes,  dear  mother,"  urged  Helen.  "  I  feel 
tired  and  hungry,  and  I  know  that  you  must  be 
over-wearied." 

"  Come,"  said  the  matron,  turning  towards  the 
house. 


THE   ASYLUM,  233 

^  Helen  leaned  with  a  slight  onward  impulse 
upon  the  arin  of  her  mother,  who  made  no  objec 
tion,  and  they  re-entered  the  building. 

A  table  was  set,  under  the  direction  of  the 
matron,  and  dinner  served  to  Mrs.  Hardy  and  her 
daughter.  Before  the  meal  was  ended,  the  doctor 
arrived.  Being  informed  of  the  change  in  his 
patient's  state  of  mind,  he  deemed  it  best,  on 
consideration,  to  go  in  upon  her  unannounced, 
and  decide,  after  an  interview,  whether  it  would 
be  best  to  take  her  home,  or  leave  her  at  the 
Asylum.  A  single  glance  at  her  changed  coun 
tenance  told  him  that  the  light  of  reason  bad 
dawned  once  more,  though  it  burned  yet  only 
with  a  feeble  flame.  She  scolded  him  severely, 
•  paying  that  she  was  seriously  offended  at  his 
conduct,  and  insisted  upon  his  taking  her  home 
immediately. 

It  was  necessary,  the  doctor  saw,  to  make  his 
decision  on  the  instant.  He  looked  into  Helen's 
face,  and  read  her  desire  for  his  acquiescence: 
This  turned  the  scale,  and  he  said  promptly — 

"  I  must  excuse  myself,  by  saying,  madam," — 
he  spoke  in  a  tone  of  apology, — "  that  I  thought 
a  couple  of  hours  i:»  this  pleasant  place  would  do 
you  more  good  than  all  my  medicine.  But  come, 
my  carriage  is  waiting,  and  I  will  drive  you  home 
in  the  quickest  possible  time." 

V 


"If  she  prove  stubborn,  shall  I  dare 
To  drop  the  axe  ? — Soft !  pause  we  there 

yon  [maid]  may  tell 

The  tale ;  and  Fairfax  loves  [her]  well. 

Else  wherefore  should  I  now  delay 

To  sweep  this  [Hindrance]  from  my  way?" — Scon. 

4.FTER  bringing  Mrs.  Hardy  back  to  her  home, 
and  seeing  that  her  mind,  though  still  not  entirely 
clear,  continued  in  its  improved  condition,  the 
doctor  went  on  to  her  husband's  place  of  business, 
and  informed  him  of  the  favourable  change  which 
had  taken  place.  The  intelligence  was  not  received 
with  such  warmly-uttered  pleasure  as  the  doctoi 
had  expected.  Mr.  Hardy  had  many  questions 
to  ask,  and  doubts  to  be  removed.  Was  it  not 
rather  precipitate  to  bring  his  wife  home  ?  Would 
it  not  have  been  wiser  to  have  waited  a  few  days, 
to  see  if  .the  favourable  change  continued  ?  He 
did  not  like  the  means  used  in  her  "  temporary 
restoration,"  as  he  called  it.  It  was  his  opinion, 
that  it  would  never  do  to  leave  Helen  and  her 
mother  together.  They  would  mutually  enervate 
each  other. 


BAFFLED   PURPOSES.  235 

The  doctor  thought  differently,  and  charged 
Mr.  Hardy  on  no  account  to  interrupt  their  inter 
course,  but  to  leave  Helen  to  deal  with  her  mother 
as  her  own  heart  misrht  dictate. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  said  he,  "  tn<*,.  »ne  is  wiser, 
in  this  matter,  from  pure  love,  than  either  you  or 
I  in  the  pride  of  our  reason.  Let  them  alone. 
Her  hand  has  already  opened  a  window  in  her 
mother's  soul,  through  which  light  is  streaming. 
She  has  done  more  in  an  hour  than  I  could  have 
accomplished  in  weeks — more,  probably,  than  1 
could  have  accomplished  in  years.  Helen  is  the 
true  physician  in  this  case ;  and  we  must  not  in 
terfere  with  her  in  the  slightest  degree.  You  may 
blame  her  for  disobedience,  in  having  left  school 
without  your  permission ;  but  I  see  a  Providence 
in  the  act ;  and  you  may  well  be  thankful,  even 
while  you  blame."  ^ 

Mr.  Hardy  tried  not  to  see  this  Providence, 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  see  it.  He  had  resolved 
that  Helen  should  go  back  to  school ;  and,  up 
to  this  time,  he  still  meant  to  keep  his  resolve. 
But  this  new  aspect  of  things  was  like  the  placing 
of  a  huge  barrier  in  his  way.  The  impulse  to  leap 
over  this  barrier,  at  all  hazards,  was  very  strong; 
but,  against  the  physician's  injunctions  he  dared 
not  act  in  a  matter,  where,  if  evil  consequences 
followed,  his  reputation  in  .the  eyes  of  the  world 
must  suffer  deeply. 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

Mr.  Hardy  was  always  ready  to  make  a  virtue 
of  necessity.  He  never  yielded,  so  long  as  there 
remained  any  hope  of  accomplishing  his  ends ; 
but  when  the  last  hope  failed,  and  acquiescence 
was  inevitable,  the  man  put  on  a  new  exterior, 
and  sought  for  compensation  in  the  good  opinion 
of  others. 

Finding  that  the  doctor  was  decided,  and  was 
even  beginning  to  manifest  surprise  at  his  evident 
unwillingness  to  accede  to  the  requirements  of  the 
case,  he  gave  up  all  opposition,  saying — 

"  You  ought  to  know  best,.  Doctor,  and  I  leave 
all  in  your  hands.  I  am  in  the  habit  of  viewing 
every  matter  that  comes  up  for  consideration  on 
all  sides,  and  forming  my  own  judgment  from  my 
own  reason.  Of  course,  I  cannot  always  be  right. 
Questions  will  arise,  wherein  the  judgment  of 
others  is  superior  to  mine;  and  this,  no  doubt,  is 
one  of  them.  What  is  best  for  my  wife  and  child, 
is  the  problem  to  solve.  Their  good  is  the  high 
end  we  both  have  in  view.  To  gain  this,  I  am 
ready  to  make  any  sacrifice,  however  great.  Ah, 
Doctor!  you  should  not  wonder,  with  so  much 
at  stake,  that  I  should  at  times  have  many  a  doubt, 
or  that  I  hesitate  to  act,  where  the  action  proposed 
does  not  accord  with  my  own  convictions.  My 
wife  and  child  are  both  dear  to  me.  I  separated 
them — an  act  that  smote  my  heart  with  incon 
ceivable  pain — because  I  saw  that  they  were  doing 


BAFFLED    PURPOSES.  237 

each  other  immense  injury.  The  necessity  that 
requires  them  again  to  be  thrown  together  in  even 
a  greater  mutual  dependence,  I  caimot  hut  regard 
as  a  serious  calamity ;  and  I  tremble  as  1  look  for 
ward  to  the  consequences." 

After  this  speech,  uttered  with  a  tone  and 
manner  even  more  deceptive  than  his  language, 
the  doctor  gave  Mr.  Hardy  credit  for  a  great  deal 
more  than  he  deserved.  But  the  latter  was  a 
skilled  actor, — so  skilled,  that  very  few  of  those 
who  met  him  in  business  or  in  social  intercourse, 
could  penetrate  the  habitual  mask,  or  dream  of  the 
cold  selfishness  that  coiled  itself,  like  a  stinging 
serpent,  below  the  bland  and  genial  exterior  of  his 
life. 

Still  the  doctor  was  not  altogether  deceived.  He 
had  seen  and  heard  enough  to  put  him  on  his 
guard,  and  to  satisfy  him  that  Mr.  Hardy,  if  not 
an  unfeeling  husband  and  father,  was  at  least  a 
mistaken  one ;  and  he  knew  that  ignorance  often 
works  as  fearful  evils  as  design.  He  believed  that 
he  had  discovered  in  Helen's  separation  from  her 
mother,  the  exciting  cause  of  this  temporary 
alienation  of  mind ;  and  he  never  yielded,  for  an 
instant,  to  the  father's  idea,  that  any  possible  in 
jury  could  arise  from  their  more  intimate  associa 
tion  and  mutual  dependence.  Every  now  and 
then  Mr.  Hardy  would  introduce  the  subject  by 
q^uery  or  suggestion,  but  the  doctor  always  met 
v2 


THE   "WITHERED   HEART. 

him  on  the  thresholl,  and  settled  it  without 
argument. 

There  was  a  change  in  Helen  that  surprised 
her  father,  and  by  the  very  power  of  a  new  aspect, 
compelled  a  modified  treatment.  He  had  parted 
with  her  a  weak,  weeping  child,  whose  very 
suffering  was  a  temptation  to  his  love  of  power ; 
she  had  come  to  her  home  a  calm,  reserved,  self- 
reliant  woman,  whose  step,  and  mien,  and  tone  of 
voice,  ^commanded  a  respect  that  he  almost  felt  it 
a  humiliation  to  yield.  The  fire  had  penetrated 
to  the  centre  of  her  being ;  but  in  suffering  she 
had  been  changed,  and  now  came  forth  purer  in 
feeling,  clearer  in  perception,  and  stronger  'in 
powers  of  endurance.  Her  first  requirement,  on 
coming  home  from  the  Asylum,  was  that  the 
stranger  she  had  found  in  her  mother's  place 
should  at  once  leave,  and  on  no  account  be  seen 
by  Mrs.  Hardy,  except  as  a  visitor.  The  doctor 
demurred ;  but  Helen's  answer,  in  which  she 
gave  her  reason  for  what  she  required,  instantly 
brought  the  physician  over  to  her  side ;  and  the 
woman,  after  due  explanations  were  made,  retired 
from  the  house  without  having  been  seen  by  its 
mistress. 

The  latter  was  in  no  condition  to  resume  the 
duties  of  her  household.  The  light,  of  reason  had 
indeed  broken  through  the  cloudy  veil,  but  it  did 
not  yet  burn  with  a  deal  radiance.  She  required 


BAFFLED   PURPOSES.  239 

the  wisest  and  the  kindest  treatment.  Had  she 
been  left  to  her  husband's  blind  discipline,  it 
would  have  been  needful  to  return  her  to  the 
Asylum  in  less  than  a  Aveek. 

As  it  was,  the  veil  over  her  reason  grew  thinner 
every  hour,  and  the  light  came  in  stronger. 
Things  did  not  progress  agreeably  to  the  judg 
ment  of  Mr.  Hardy,  who  suffered  all  the  while 
from  an  impatient  desire  to  put  forth  his  hand 
and  interrupt  their  movement.  But  Helen  was 
quiet  and  firm,  and  the  doctor  very  watchful  and 
quick  to  admonish  j  so  that  through  the  loving 
care  of  the  one,  and  the  wise  supervision  of  the 
other,  the  blind  home-tyrant  was  kept  from  doing 
the  harm  to  which  his  persistent  self-will  was 
constantly  prompting  him. 

Happily,  nothing  occurred  to  interrupt  the 
gradual  return  of  Mrs.  Hardy  to  the  mental  health 
which  had  been  so  seriously  impaired  ;  and  when 
both  mind  and  body  were  so  far  restored  that  she 
could  fill  her  old  place  in  the  household,  she 
found  an  arm  to  lean  upon,  that  was  strong  to 
support  her  feeble  steps.  Helen  did  not,  on  the 
restoration  of  her  mother,  recede  from  the  active 
position  she  had  taken,  but  maintained  the 
womanly  character  so  suddenly  developed,  and 
steadily,  as  at  the  beginning,  kept  her  place 
by  her  mother's  side,  and  between  her  and  hei 
father's  -will. 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

Mr.  Hardy  found  himself  baffled  in  almost 
every  attempt  to  turn  his  daughter  from  the  line 
of  conduct  which  hei  heart's  instinct  led  her  to 
pursue.  She  never  met  him  in  open  opposition, 
and  never  so  directly  disregarded  his  commands, 
or  suggestions,  as  to  give  room  for  his  strong  self- 
will  to  lift  itself  in  stubborn  power.  The  mild, 
even,  calm  self-possession  that  was  rarely  lost, — 
the  singular  force  and  clearness  of  all  the  reasons 
she  gave  for  her  conduct,  when  questioned, — 
gradually  inspired  a  feeling  of  respect  and  con 
fidence,  that  took  its  place  in  his  mind  even 
despite  the  opposition  of  a  meanly  selfish  pride. 

Nothing  more  was  said  about  sending  Helen 
away  to  school,  although  Mr.  Hardy  did  not  admit 
to  himself,  for  a  single  moment,  that  he  had  aban 
doned  the  purpose.  He  waJted,  from  day  to  day 
and  from  week  to  week,  the  occurrence  of  a  good 
opportunity  for  announcing  his  will  in  that  par 
ticular.  But  the  opportunity  never  occurred 
There  was  something  about  Helen  that  always 
put  a  seal  upon  his  lips,  whenever  his  perverse 
self-will  prompted  him  to  utter  the  sentence  of 
exile  from  home.  And  so  he  had  to  content 
himself  with  design  ia  the  place  of  action.  To 
have  given  up  Ihe  former,  would  have  been  to 
acknowledge  that  John  llaidy  wao  wrong, — but 
John  Hardy  was  "  always  right."  Circumstances, 
that  alter  cases,  were  wrong  \n  the  piesent  in- 


BAFFLED    PURPOSES  241 

stance ;  and  he  yielded  to  the  power  of  outward 
events  over  which  he  had  no  control. 

Time  woi'e  on ;  and  no  further  aberration  of 
mind  took  place.  Every  day  Helen  gained  a  new 
and  stronger  influence,  and  came  in  more  and 
more  protectingly  between  the  arbitrary  will  of 
her  father  and  the  more  sensitive  members  of  the 
household.  Even  against  his  own  convictions  and 
purposes  did  she  bend  the  former ;  and  even 
while  he  meant  to  resist  her  influence,  she  often 
led  him  in  the  way  she  wished  him  to  go,  passive 
almost  as  a  little  child. 

Back  to  its  former  condition  of  thought  and 
feeling,  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Hardy  did  not  come. 
The  work  of  restoration  went  on  steadily  to  a 
certain  point,  and  there  progression  ceased.  A 
deep  pulseless  quiet  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  her 
spirit.  She  moved  about  the  house,  and  among 
her  children,  with  a  placid,  absent  demeanour. 
Her  voice  never  rose  above  an  even  tone,  nor 
gave  a  sign  of  emotion.  It  seemed  as  if  every 
green  thing  in  her  heart  had  been  withered ;  as 
if  all  the  goodly  trees  had  cast  their  leaves,  and 
the  singing  birds  found  shelter  no  longer  amid 
their  branches. 

At  intervals,  more  or  less  remote  from  each 
other,  a  variableness  would  appvja>  in  Mrs.  Hardy's 
state  of  feeling.  It  did  not  rise  above  tlw  usual 
dead  levjl,  but  sank  below  \L  A  dwp  ploom 


THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

traceable  to  no  apparent  cause,  would  gather  over 
her  mind,  and  for  days — sometimes  for  weeks — 
she  would  not  rise  from  her  bed ;  or,  if  wooed  by 
her  daughter's  gentle  entreaties  to  come  forth  and 
join  the  family,  it  was  with  a  ray-less  countenance 
and  eyes  so  sad  that  the  heart  ached  to  look  into 
them.  And  so  the  months  went  by — lovely 
children  springing  up  around  the  mother,  and 
claiming  her  devoted  attention,  yet  not  seeming 
to  have  the  power  of  entering  her  heart  beyond  its 
pillared  vestibule. 

Alas,  for  the  home  which  Mr.  Hardy  had  so 
fondly  desired ! — the  home,  so  beautiful  in  ima 
gination,  as,  looking  down  the  vista  of  years,  he 
had  pictured  its  pleasures,  and  seen  himself  hap 
piest  of  the  happy,  amid  his  wife  and  children! 
How  lovely  had  been  the  ideal ;  how  cold  and 
8ad  the  reality !  What  a  terrible  disappointment 
to  all  his  hopes !  He  had  been  too  eager  and  too 
Silfish — trampling  under  foot  the  tender  plants 
M  Inch  alone  could  in  after  time  have  borne  the 
fi  uit  he  coveted.  He  had  desired  a  home,  with 
kve-fires  shining  in  perpetual  radiance;  but  his 
cold,  proud  nature  could  not  stoop  to  join  in  the 
work  of  kindling  these  fires,  or  in  keeping  them 
brightly  burning.  He  demanded  love  and  obe 
dience  ;  but  his  stern  voice  had  in  it  no  magical 
power.  They  came  not  at  his  call ! 

If  Mr.  Hardy,  during   all  the   long  years   of 


BAFFLED   PURPOSES.  243 

painful  discipline  thus  passed  through  by  himself 
and  his  wife,  saw  his  error  in.  a  single  instance, 
pride  suffered  no  repentant  impulse  to  ripple  in 
sunlight  and  promise  over  his  feelings.  As  lie 
had  commenced,  he  meant  to  go  through  to  the 
last.  "  John  Hardy  had  begun  right,  and  John 
Hardy  would  end  right."  In  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  he  was  a  mild,  consistent,  gentlemanly, 
benevolent  man ;  and  as  he  was  in  the  eyes  of. 
the  world,  so  he  was  in  his  own  eyes.  Often  he 
.  would  return  to  the  past,— soften  retrace  his  career 
from  the  beginning, — reviewing  the  strange,  un 
reasonable  conduct  of  his  wife,  from  the  very  day 
he  proposed  having  a  home  of  his  OAVH  up  to  the 
present  period, — and  in  all  the  troubled  passages 
of  their  lives  he  saw  himself  as  a  martyr,  and  his 
wife  as  a  strange  self-willed  being,  who,  because 
she  could  riot  have  her  own  way,  made  clouds  and 
darkness  to  gather  in  perpetual  gloom  around  their 
dwelling.  All  this  he  thought  over  again  and 
again,  but  self-love  kept  his  perceptions  dim. 
Not  once  did  lie  go  out  of  his  own  consciousness, 
and  so  enter  into  the  feelings  and  consciousness  of 
his  wife  as  to  realize  anything  of  her  peculiar  states, 
wants,  or  feelings.  And  so,  over  and  over  again, 
the  conviction  was  reproduced,  that  "  John  Hardy 
was  right."  And  when  "  John  Hardy  was  righs 
with  himself,"  no  rock  could  be  more  firmly  bused 
He  was  a  moral  Gibraltar ! 


irigjttr 


They  sin,  who  tell  us  Love  can  die; 
With  life,  all  other  passions  fly ; — 

*  *  •  •  • 

But  Love  is  indestructible ; 
Its  holy  flame  for  ever  bnrneth ; 
From  heaven  it  came ;  to  heaven  returncth , 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  Riiest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  opprest, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest." — Soururr. 

IN  the  progress  of  time,  a  slight  change  took 
place  in  the  condition  of  Mrs.  Hardy's  mh>d. 
The  withered  heart  showed  signs  of  feeling.  In 
the  brooding  warmth  of  her  eldest  daughter's 
love  there  was  a  pervading  vitality,  that,  as  a 
source  of  lite,  was  ever  transferring  itself  to  the 
mother,  until  the  jtorpid  feelings  of  the  latter 
began  to  revive  and  react.  If  the  result  brought 
a  deeper  capacity  for  enjoyment,  it  also  brought 
a  deeper  capac  ity  for  pain.  If  her  mind  was  able 
to  see  more  tlearly,  the  better  vision  revealed 
much  that  could  not  be  seen  without  sorrow.  As 
love,  the  very  essence  of  her  woman's  nature, 
regained  some  of  its  outgoing  impulses,  and  shot 
forth  its  clinging  tendrils,  the  impulses  fell  bad,' 


BRIGHTER    HOPES.  245 

*gain  in  shocks  upon  her  heart,  and  the  tendrils 
wound  their  spirals  in  the  formless  air. 

A  woma  x,  with  a  highly  organized  spiritual 
mtMre,  and  with  woman's  eternal  necessity  upon 
her — the  necessity  for  union  with  a  true  masculine 
soul,  the  heavenly  complement  of  her  own, — life 
could  rot  How  into  her  heart  with  renewing 
warmth,  wi  ;hout  a  restoration  of  desires  never 
to  be  sauufie  1  in  this  world.  Then,  as  she  realized 
again,  with  an  acute  perception,  how  strangely 
adverse  to  tit  right  development  and  true  growth 
of  her  spiritual  nature,  were  all  her  marital 
relations,  old  questions  intruded  themselves,  be 
clouding  her  mind,  and  filling  it  with  perplexing 
doubts.  Tanghtj  from  earliest  infancy,  to  confide  in 
and  reverence-tile  Divine  Being  as  a  loving  Father 
of  his  human  children,  and  still  desiring  to  hold 
fast  upon  this  estimate  of  her  Creator,  she  found 
the  ordeal  of  her  life  too  fiery,  and  her  own 
experience  too  full  of  suffering  in,  its  worst  forms, 
to  leave  room  for  any  instinctive  conclusions  that 
were  not  in  contravention  of  all  her  first  ideas  of 
a  God  full  of  Divine  benevolence.  Every  day 
these  thoughts  troubled  her  more  and  more.  The 
new  life  in  her  heart,  was  but  a  life  in  the  old 
forme  of  her  being.  It  was  still  woman's  life; 
and  as  it  grew  stronger,  her  woman's  nature  felt 
the  old  yearnings,  and  love  stood  looking  forth 
sighing  for  true  companionship. 
W 


246  THE   WITHERED    HEAR1. 

Ah  !  bitterly,  as  of  old — yea,  more  bitterly,  did 
she  mourn  the  sad  life-bondage  to  which  a  fatal 
error  had  doomed  her. 

But  there  was  one  thought,  ever  and  anon 
intruding  itself,  that  brought  a  temporary  relief. 
The  end  of  her  journey  could  not  lie  far  in  the 
distance.  Yet  quickly  following  this  thought, 
came  ever  a  troubled  question,  "  What  of  the 
future,  and  its  soul-affinities?"  And  there  was 
no  answer.  How  often  her  spirit  stood  still,  as 
though  hearkening  for  answers  from  the  unknown, 
unseen  world,  and  eagerly  trembling  in  hope  of 
some  response.  But  the  silence  that  followed  her 
call  was  profound  as  the  silence  of  death ! 

This  was  the  state  of  Mrs.  Hardy's  mind,  and 
such  were  her  relations  to  her  husband,  to  her 
family,  and  to  society,  at  the  period  of  her  first 
introduction  to  the  reader,  from  which  point  we 
now  trace  briefly  onward  the  history  of  her  inner 
life.  We  repeat  a  single  sentence  from  the  con 
clusion  of  the  second  chapter,  in  order  to  bring 
back  the  reader's  mind,  by  an  easy  transition, 
into  the  progression  of  the  narrative. 

"A  little  while  afterwards,  Mrs.  Percival  ob 
served  that  Mr.  Hardy  was  in  the  centre  of  a 
group  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  whom  he  was 
talking  in  a  very  animated  way.  Mrs.  Hardy 
was  not  on  his  arm.  She  sought  for  her  through 
the  crowded  rooms,  but,  not  finding  her,  weut 


BRIGHTER    HOPES.  247 

out  into  tne  garden,  where  she  discovered  her, 
standing  under  an  arbour,  looking  more  like  an 
immovable  statue  than  aliving  woman.  As  she 
Qame  up,  the  light,  streaming  out  from  the  open 
windows,  and  falling  upon  her  cheeks,  glittered 
among  the  crystal  tears,  and  told  that  she  was 
weeping." 

Mrs.  Percival  took  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Hardy  and 
held  it  very  tightly  within  her  own,  but  without 
speaking.  For  some  moments,  there  was  not'the 
slightest  motion  or  response. 

"  Dear  friend !"  .  A  world  of  true  sympathy 
was  in  the  low,  tender  tones  of  her  voice. 
Instantly  Mrs.  Hardy's,  hand  clasped  that  of  Mrs. 
Percival  with  a  pressure  that  sent  an  eloctric 
thrill  to  her  heart.  "  Dear  friend!"  Mrs.  Percival 
repeated  the  words  with  added  tenderness.  "  Dear 
friend  and  sufferer !"  she  continued — "  I  am  no 
curious  intruder  upon  sorrow's  sacred  precincts 
I  ask  no  confidence.  There  are  in  all  hearts 
secret  places  that  must  ever  remain  hidden  from 
all  eyes  but  those  of  God,  the  Wise  and  the 
Merciful ;  and  far  be  it  from  me  to  desire  even 
to  have  the  veil  removed.  Such  places  are  in  my 
.own  heart,  and  I  would  die  rather  than  open  the 
door  for  any  one  to  enter.  All  I  ask  is  the 
privilege  of  a  comforter,  if  there  be  power  in  me 
to  speak  consoling  words.  I  Ixave  passed  through 
many  fiery  trials — fiery,  it  may  be,  as  your  own ; 


248  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

and  1  feel  that  I  am  stronger,  and  I  hope  purer, 
through  suffering.  If  you  are  too  weak  and  faint, 
will  you  lean  upon  my  arm  ?  Dear  sister !" — there 
came  a  sudden  irrepressible  gush  of  feeling  into 
Mrs.  Percival's  voice,  as  she  added — "I  love  you!" 
Never  was  that  closing  sentence  uttered  with 
more  truth  or  tenderness — not  even  by  the  lips  of 
enamoured  manhood  in  the  flush  of  love's  young 
dreams. 

"  I  am  very  weak,  and  the  way  is  dark !" 
How  mournfully  those  words  were  said !  "  Dear 
sister !  my  heart  springs  towards  you.  Oh !  if  you 
will  let  me  lean  upon  you !" 

Mrs.  Percival  drew  her  arm  around  her,  as  she 
replied — 

"  Can  I  say  more  to  win  your  confidence  ?" 

"No, — no!"  quickly  answered  Mrs.  Hardy, 
My  heart  accepts  with  thankfulness  the  love  you 
offer.  Ah,  my  friend!  your  tones  have  gone 
very  far  down  amid  the  deeper  places  of  my  soul, 
awakening  echoes  that  have  slumbered  for  years 
In  silence — and  your  words  have  stirred  a  flood 
of  emotions,  along  the  topmost  waves  of  which 
light  is  glittering.  Oh!  if  the  day  indeed  is 
breaking !" 

"  Night,  dear  friend !"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  "  is 
only  the  absence  of  day.  The  sun  is  always  in 
mid-heavens ;  and  the  earth  is  for  ever  revolving 
The  day-spring  from  on  high  comes  as  surely  to 


BRIGHTER   HOPES.  249 

the  earnestly-seeking  spirit,  as  morning  to  the 
sons  of  men.  Lift  up  your  eyes,  and  behold 
upon  the  fur  off  nfountain-tops  blessed  tokens  of 
the  coming  dawn !" 

"  My  vision  is  feeble,  and  my  heart  full  of 
questioning  doubts,"  replied  Mrs  Hardy.  "I 
cannot  see  the  mountain-tops.  I  have  no  true 
faith  in  the  morning :  and  yet  hope  is  fluttering 
in  my  heart !" 

Merry  voices  now  broke  upon  the  air,  and  a 
group  of  laughing  girls  came  bounding  into  the 
garden.  Mrs.  Percival  drew  her  arm  within  that 
of  Mrs.  Hardy,  and  they  moved  down  one  of  the 
walks.  Two  or  three  of  the  girls,  joining  them, 
interrupted  their  conversation,  which  was  not 
renewed  again  during  the  evening. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  they  met  under  circum 
stances  more  favourable.  Mrs.  Percival  called 
•apon  Mrs.  Hardy,  as  she  had  promised  to  do. 
As  from  the  heart's  fulness  the  lips  have  utterance, 
the  former  subject  of  conversation  was  soon  re 
newed,  and  the  dark  mystery  of  life  presented  for 
solution.  Mrs.  Hardy's  mind  was  calmer  than 
before,  and  her  thoughts  clearer,  but  very  earnest. 

"  What  of  our  future  lives  ?"  she  asked,  in  the 
progress  of  their  familiar  talk.  "  It  is  into  the 
unknown  beyond  that  my  eyes  are  ever  straining 
themselves.  Hope  in  this  life  died  out  long  ago; 
but  oh,  iny  friend!  what  of  the  eternal  life?" 
w  2 


260          i  THE    WITHERED   HEART. 

"  To  the  pure  and  godlike,  it  will  be  a  life  of 
happiness,"  answered  Mrs.  Percival. 

A  shade  of  disappointment  came  over  the  coun 
tenance  of  Mrs.  Hardy. 

"  I  am  not  satisfied  with  any  broad  generalities 
like  this.  Happiness  is  a  positive  thing,  made 
up  of  mental  states  that  depend  upon  conditions 
of  life.  A  vague,  dreamy  happiness  is  nothing. 
If  we  are  to  live  for  ever,  how  are  we  to  live? 
and  under  what  laws  of  association  ?  Can  death 
make  me  less  a  woman,  or  put  out  the  instincts 
of  my  woman's  heart  ?" 

"  No,"  was  the  firmly  uttered  reply.  "  Death — 
or  the  separation  of  the  natural  from  the  spiritual — 
will  make  you  more  a  woman,  and  quicken  into 
higher  life  all  your  womanly  instincts  !" 

"  And  it  will  be  the  same  with  man !" 

"  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  Is  not  man  as 
liffereiit  from  woman  in  mind  as  in  body  ?  Death 
is  only  a  withdrawal  of  the  spiritual  from  the 
natural  and  material ;  not  an  extinction  of  its 
inner  forms  of  life.  Man  will  remain  man,  and 
woman  remain  woman,  as  now.  Thought  can 
compass,  from  God-given  reason,  no  other  con 
clusion." 

A  deep  sigh  trembled  on  the  lips  of  Mrs. 
Hardy.  For  some  moments,  she  sat  lost  in 
thought. 

"As  woman  is  the  complement  of  man  here,  so 


BRIGHTER    HOPES.  251 

woman  be  the  complement  of  man  hereafter?" 
she  said,  at  length,  speaking  very  deliberately. 

"  I,  for  one,  am  disposed  to  believe  that,"  replied 
Mrs.  Percival,  "  or  else  I  cannot  believe  in  my 
own  life,  nor  have  any  faith  in  its  yearning 
instincts.  I  have  an  ever-abiding  sense  of  personal 
incompleteness, — an  eternal  longing  for  an  interior 
companionship  that  signifies  nothing  less  than 
oneness" 

"  Oh,  my  friend  !  how  entirely  have  you  given 
voice  to  my  own  feelings.  But  does  not  your 
heart  tremble,  in  doubt  and  fear,  as  you  look 
forward  into  this  unknown  future,  over  which  the 
darkest  veil  of  mystery  is  drawn  ?" 

"  No,  it  does  not  tremble,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  a 
light  playing  over  her  countenance  as  she  spoke. 

Mrs.  Hardy  gazed,  for  some  time,  into  the  face 
of  her  friend: 

"  There  is  one  subject  on  which  I  want  more 
light,"  said  she,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  A\  as 
forcing  herself  into  the  utterance  of  something 
that  was  either  painful  or  repugnant.  "  I  have 
before  spoken  of  affinities,  and  the  laws  of  future 
association.  It  is  on  this  subject  that  I  am 
groping  in  the  dark.  Will  the  same  laws  be  in 
force  there,  that  operate  here  ?  Or,  to  speak  more 
plainly,  is  marriage  here  a  marriage  for  eternity  f ' 

"  A  true  marriage  here  is  an  eternal  marriage  !" 
replied  the  friend: — "  none  other." 


252  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

"  What  is  a  true  marriage  ?" 

"  A  union  of  mind." 

"  Ah  !" 

"  Vows — pledges — promises — are  but  external 
bonds,  and  for  this  world  only.  They  fall  away 
at  death,  and  are  of  no  more  after  value  than  the 
body  ihat  descends  to  the  pit.  In  the  future  life, 
there  must  be  a  oneness  of  thought  and  feeling, 
or  there  ca.n  be  no  conjunction  of  soul  with  ooul." 

"  Blessed  faith !  Oh,  what  would  I  not  give 
to  feel  a  Div\ne  assurance  of  its  truth !"  said  Mrs. 
Hardy,  with  flushing  cheeks  and  brightening  eyes. 

"  Suppose,"  «jaid  Mis.  Percival,  "  there  were,  as 
has  so  often  been  imagined,  a  window,  in  every 
one's  bosom  ; — 01,  belter,  suppose  the  countenance 
were  a  mirror  tbwi  inflected  the  spirit's  true  form, 
so  that  each  one  ooo.ld  see  the  mental  constitution 
of  his  neighbour,  \vhile  his  own  stood  revealed  to 
the  eyes  of  every  curious  observer, — would  not 
hundreds  and  thousands  who  meet,  now,  in 
smiling  confidence — who  woo  and  wed,  and  find 
misery  instead  of  happiness — be  driven  asunder 
at  the  first  meetii  ig  ?  It  is  because  men  and 
women  do  not  really  know  each  other,  or  have 
false  views  of  marriage,  that  so  many  wed  unwisely, 
liut,  in  the  other  life,  where  each  is  seen  and 
known  as  he  is,  there  can  be  no  mistakes  as  to 
harmony  of  disposition — and  no  union  of  opposites 
The  affinities  will  be  those  of  love  and  wisdom 


BRIGHTER   HOPES.  253 

Men  and  women  will  be  mutually  attracted  ac 
cording  to  the  measure  in  each  of  wisdom,  and  of 
the  love  of  wisdom." 

Mrs.  Hardy  looked  wonderingly  into  the  face  of 
her  friend,  and  listened  so  eagerly  that  her  breath 
was  almost  suspended. 

"  Do  you  comprehend  me  ?"  said  Mrs.  Fercival, 
after  a  pause. 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  were  stepping  from  a  dark 
chamber  into  the  blessed  daylight!"  was  answered. 
"  Oh  !  it  must  be  as  you  say  !  What  a  world  of 
dreams  and  shadows  has  been  the  future !  But, 
you  have  peopled  it  for  me  with  men  and  women 
who  think,  and  feel,  and  love!  My  heart  is 
already  leaping  with  a  new  impulse.  There  is 
yet  hope,  and  life,  and — may  I  not  believe — joy 
in  the  future  ?" 

"  God  is  love,"  said  Mrs.  Percival  impressively. 

"  It  must  be  so  !"  rejoined  Mrs.  Hardy.  "  Oh, 
what  a  light  seems  gathering  around  those  words ! 
For  if  love  be  God's  essential  nature — and  if  He  is 
as  wise  as  He  is  good — then  He  has  not  created  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  with  all  its  undying  impulses — 
its  deep,  loving  necessities — without  providing  for 
her  in  some  form  or  other  an  eternal  com 
panionship." 

"  1  could  as  well  doubt  my  existence,"  replied 
Mrs,  Percival.  "  But,  in  this  connexion,  there 
is  another  truth  that  deeply  concerns  us.  If  we 


254  THE   WITHERED   HEART 

desire  heavenly  companionship,  we  must  see  to  it 
that  \ve  he  prepared  for  heaven." 

Mrs.  Hardy  sighed,  and  there  followed  a  gradual 
drooping  of  her  countenance. 

"And  we  are  not  meetened  for  that  world," 
said  Mrs.  Percival,  "  by  brooding  over  our  un- 
happiness,  but  by  seeking  the  happiness  of  others. 
As  social  anchorites,  we  gain  nothing  of  heavenly- 
mindedness.  Not  as  the  old  hermit  are  we  to 
retire,  in  weakness,  or  cowardice,  from  the  life- 
battle,  and  hope  to  win  the  favour  of  the  great 
Captain  of  our  salvation.  The  very  life  of  heaven 
is  the  love  of  blessing  others  out  of  ourselves ; 
and  if  we  do  not  acquire  this  love  here,  it  will 
never  gain  an  entrance  into  our  hearts  there. 
Heaven  lies  in  the  state  of  the  affections ;  and 
these  affections  must  first  be  born  on  earth;  for 
it  is  here  that  the  true  spiritual  life,  as  well 
as  the  natural  life,  begins.  As  soon  as  these 
are  born,  we  come  into  association  with  angelic 
spirits,  and  thus  enter  a  heavenly  society,  with 
which  there  will  be  visible  presence  when  this 
mortal  shall  put  on  immortality.  We  must  have 
on  the  wedding  garment — and  the  oil  of  true 
charity  must  be  in  our  lamps — or  we  cannot  enter 
into  the  marriage-supper  of  the  Lamb." 

Mrs.  Hardy  looked  thoughtful  even  to  serious 
ness.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  neither 
clothed  in  the  wedding  robe,  nor  am  provided 


BRIGHTER    HOPES.  255 

with  oil  in  my  lamp ;  but,  in  the  strength  and  at 
the  hand  of  Him  who  giveth  all  good  gifts  to  His 
erring  and  sinful  children,  I  will  seek  the  garment 
of  truth  and  purity,  and  buy  oil  for  the  lamp 
which  has  too  long  swung  rayless  in  my  hand." 

"  We  too  often  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  "  in 
our  own  grief,  pain,  or  disappointment,  that 
others  suffer  as  well  as  we ; — that  the  spirits  with 
which  we  struggle  in  a  vain  antagonism  are 
suffering  spirits  as  well  as  our  own; — that  the 
links  of  the  chain  which  binds  us  to  another, 
chafe  also  that  other  heart.  Our  tears  are  not 
always  shed  alone.  The  path  we  tread  in  dark 
ness,  may  be  dark  also  to  another's  feet.  Ah, 
my  friend !  there  is,  in  all  sorrow,  whether  for 
lost  friends  or  lost  happiness,  an  element  of  selfish 
ness  that  gives  double  anguish  to  the  pain.  If 
we  could  only  think  less  of  our  own  unsatisfied 
longings,  and  let  our  hearts  go  out  in  pity  even 
for  those  who  wrong  and  oppress  us,  because  they 
are  fellow-sufferers,  the  burdens  we  bear  would 
rest  lighter  on  our  shoulders.  It  is  a  fact  worthy 
of  note,  that  the  moment  we  let  sympathy  for 
another's  grief  find  a  lodging-place  in  our  h<-;ivts, 
that  moment  our  own  griefs  bear  upon  us  with  a 
diminished  pressure." 

Mrs.  Hardy  scarcely  responded  to  these  remarks ; 
but  they  took  strong  hold  upon  her  thoughts,  and 
she  said  mentally,  "  How  selfish  I  have  been  I" 


THE   -WITHERED    HEAHT. 

"  We  censure  the  old  recluse  for  retiring  from 
the  world,"  resumed  Mrs.  Percival, — "  instead  of 
remaining  in  the  midst  of  it,  bravely  meeting  its 
wrongs,  and  striving  to  do  some  good  in  his  -day 
and  generation.  And  are  we  who  retire  from 
society  into  the  seclusion  of  our  homes,  there  to 
brood  over  the  ruins  of  our  earthly  hopes,  any 
•wiser  or  better  than  he  ?  No,  my  friend,  we  are 
not !  Nay  !  nay  !  Let  us  come  out  of  ourselves. 
Let  us  look  away  from  our  own  hearts,  to  wh^jch 
we  can  bring  neither  light  nor  comfort,  and  let 
us  see  if  we  cannot  bring  light  and  comfort  into 
some  other  heart.  In  this  work,  our  labour  will 
not  be  in  vain — and  the  blessing  will  be  twofold." 

"I  thank  you,  dear  friend!"  said  Mrs.  Hardy, 
"  for  all  that  you  have  said.  Ah !  if  we  had  met 
earlier !" 

"  It  is  never  too  late !"  was  the  impressively 
spoken  answer. 

"  No,  thank  God !"  responded  Mrs.  Hardy, 
with  a  gush  of  feeling  that  surprised  her  visitor, 
who  knew  not  how  deeply  her  words  had  gone 
down  into  the  heart  of  her  suffering  sister,  nor 
with  what  better  purposes  they  were  already 
inspiring  her. 


gutter 

44  The  woman's  cause  is  man's  ;  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarf  d  or  godlike,  bond  or  free." — TENWTBOW. 

IT  was  perhaps  an  hour  after  Mrs.  Percival  took 
leave  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  that  the  latter  started  from 
a  deep  reverie  at  the  sound  of  her  husband's  voice. 
The  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Mr.  Hardy 
had  returned  from  business.  The  perpetual 
shadow  resting  over  his  home — the  coldness  of  the 
fireside  circle — the  absence  of  loving  acts  towards 
one  who  had  not  inspired  love, — all  tended  to  sober, 
and,  in  a  degree,  to  sadden  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Hardy, 
who  remained  cold,  dignified,  and  exacting. 

Of  all  this  his  wife  had  been  thinking;  and 
memory  had  carried  her  back  to  the  early  times, 
when  her  young  husband,  in  his  eagerness  to 
compass  the  blessings  of  the  home  he  coveted,  had 
trampled  upon  her  feelings,  and  put  out  the  light 
that  was  to  warm,  and  cheer,  and  make  beautiful 
his  dwelling;  and  she  remembered  how,  ever 
since,  they  had  walked  on,  side  by  side,  in  dark 
ness.  If  her  life  had  been  a  sad  and  dreary  one, 
X 


258  THE  WITHERED  HEART. 

Had  not  his  been  cheerless  ?  Even  if  he  had  been 
wrong — nay,  cruel — was  he  not  a  sufferer?  A 
new  feeling  stirred  in  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Hardy — 
a  feeling  of  pity  for  her  husband.  Like  a  stranger 
in  a  crowded  city,  he  was  in  a  certain  sense  alone 
in  the  midst  of  his  family.  All  treated  him  with 
respect ;  yet  none  seemed  to  love  him.  Even  the 
youngest  hushed  their  merry  voices,  when  he 
entered  the  room  where  they  sported. 

As  Mr.  Hardy  came  into  the  apartment  where 
his  wife  was  sitting,  the  latter  raised  her  eyes  to 
his  face;  a  thing  unusual,  for  her  habit  was  to 
avoid  giving  him  a  direct  look.  Each  saw  in  the 
countenance  of  the  other  an  expression  that  caused 
the  gaze  to  linger.  What  Mr.  Hardy  saw,  was  a 
something  gentle,  womanly,  and  tender;  for  the 
heart  of  his  wife  was  speaking  in  her  eye. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Jane  ?"  He  spoke  kindly 
and  with  a  real  interest  in  his  voice.  How  man) 
many  years  had  passed,  since  that  voice  had  in  it 
the  slightest  melody  for  her  ears  !  But  now  it 
awoke  pleasing  emotions. 

"  I  feel  quite  well,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  even 
tone,  while  the  expression  of  her  face  had  in  it 
something  agreeable  to  the  eyes  that  looked  upon 
it  half  in  wonder.  "  Are  you  as  well  as  usual  I" 
Mrs.  Hardy  gazed  with  some  earnestness  at  her 
husband.  There  was  a  change  in  his  countenance, 
which  she  had  not  observed  before 


BETTER   DAYS.  259 

"  Quite  as  well,"  he  replied.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  ?"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  thought  you  had  a  weary  look,"  said  Mrs. 
Hardy,  with  so  real  an  interest  in  her  voice — not 
designed,  but  spontaneous — that  her  husband  was 
touched  with  a  feeling  of  tenderness  unusual  to 
his  cold  nature. 

"  I  am  often  weary  with  the  day's  care  and 
labour,"  he  replied,  "  and  glad  when  the  hour  of 
rest  comes." 

Mrs.  Hardy  said  no  more,  but  her  eyes,  that 
lingered  upon  his  face,  had  a  new  light  in  them — 
the  light  of  kindness.  She  thought  of  this  cave  and 
labour  to  which  he  referred,  and  remembered  that 
it  was  not  all  fur  himself: — that  she  was  a  sharer  iu 
the  benefit ;  and  that  he  never  withheld  anything 
from  her  that  money  could  buy,  if  she  desired  its 
possession;  while  the  home  he  provided  for  her  and 
his  children  was  not  only  elegant,  but  luxurious. 

"  Have  I  done  all  in  my  power  to  make  this 
home  a  pleasant  one  for  my  husband  ?"  The  ques 
tion  intruded  itself  almost  rebukingly.  "  As  a 
wife,  have  I  done  my  duty  ?"  Self-conviction 
answered,  "  No  !" 

Mr.  Hardy  was  surprised ;  nay,  more,  he  was 
pleased  at  this  new  aspect  in  his  wife's  manner,  that 
broke  upon  him  like  a  sun-ray  falling  suddenly 
through  a  rifted  cloud.  Very  gentle  was  his 
demeanour  towards  her  all  through  the  evening 


260  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

that  followed,  and  very  guarded  was  he  in  speech 
and  tone,  lest  he  should  call  hack  the  old,  leaden 
aspect  to  her  face,  and  change  the  grateful  warn  th 
of  her  present  manner  to  the  cold  exterior  she  h?  i 
so  long  worn. 

The  children  noted  the  change,  and  a  quieter 
tone  of  feeling  pervaded  their  sprits.  They  drew 
around  him  with  more  loving  instincts;  and, 
instead  of  repelling  them,  as  was  too  often  the 
case,  he  rather  invited  their  confidence.  His 
speech  was  more  suhdued,  and  his  whole  air  so 
different  from  its  usual  aspect,  that  a  pleasing 
wonder  filled  their  minds. 

Mr.  Hardy  noted  this  evening  as  the  most 
agreeable  that  he  had  passed  at  home,  in  the 
midst  of  his  family,  for  many  years.  Its  remem- 
hrance  was  with  him  the  next  morning,  and  the 
desire  also  to  pass  many  more  such  evenings. 
Like  a  desert-wanderer,  faint  through  long  journey 
ing  under  the  exhausting  sun,  lie  had  come  to  a 
spring  beneath  the  palm-trees  ;  he  had  paused  for 
rest  and  refreshment ;  and  now  he  felt  stronger  tc 
move  on  again. 

The  first  words  spoken  to  him  that  day  by  his 
wife, — how  rare  a  thing  was  it  for  her  voice  to 
reach  his  ears  burdened  with  any  outgoing  interest ! 
— took  the  form  of  a  question  as  to  whether  she 
could  not  render  him  a  service.  With  a  plea  s<] 
manner,  he  accepted  the  proffer,  so  kiiallv  made. 


BETTER   DATS. 

Not  ti-  the  least  obtrusive  was  Mrs.  Hardy.  The 
change  in  her  conduct  was  simply  a  change  from 
cold  incifteience  to  a  manifested  interest. 

Very  careful  was  her  husband  not  to  say  or  do 
anything  that  could  disturb  this  new  and  better 
state  of  mind.  How  different  from  his  usual  con 
duct  !  So  accustomed  had  he  become  to  the  utter 
ance  of  unkind  words,  as  the  simple  expression  of 
his  unkind  feelings,  that  another  form  of  speech  was 
almost  new  to  him ;  and  he  was  in  danger  every 
moment  of  acting  from  the  old  habit  instead  of  the 
new  purpose.  Once,  as  they  sat  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  he  forgot  himself,  and  spoke  to  her  with  a 
cold  sneer  on  his  lip.  He  looked  for  a  total 
change  in  her  manner — for  the  instant  going  out 
of  the  light,  the  first  faint  rays  of  which  had 
fallen  upon  him  with  such  a  genial  warmth.  How 
deeply  did  he  regret  his  weakness,  and  blame  him 
self  for  unkindness. 

Almost  stealthily  did  he  lift  his  eyes  to  his  wife's 
face  to  see  if  the  old  expression  had  returned.  N-J 
— it  was  not  there !  The  long  lashes  had  fallen 
until  they  made  a  dark  line  on  her  cheeks,  and 
her  lips  were  closed  rather  more  tightly  than  usual. 
If  there  was  any  change  in  her  countenance,  it 
was  a  look  of  regret,  softened  by  a  spirit  of,  en 
during  patience.  A  kind  word  soon  dropped  from 
his  lips,  and  he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  ita 
hoped-for  effect. 
z2 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

All  day,  from  the  time  he  left  home  in  the 
morning  till  his  return  at  night-fall,  was  Mr. 
Hardy  pondering  this  change  in  his  wife's  man 
ner,  and  wondering  at  its  origin.  No  event  had 
occurred  to  which  he  could  trace  it.  There  had 
been  no  change  in  him.  He  had  been  as  hard, 
and  cold,  and  selfishly  exacting,  as  ever;  and 
even  on  the  very  morning  of  the  preceding  day, 
had  permitted  himself  to  speak  to  her  with  more 
than  usual  unkindness.  Almost  the  first  thing 
observed  by  him  on  coming  home  again,  was  a 
little  arrangement  for  his  comfort — a  trifle  in 
itself,  yet  evincing  a  thoughtful  anticipation-  of 
his  wishes.  Its  nature  left  no  doubt  as  to  the 
hand  to  which  he  was  indebted  for  the  service. 
He  was  touched  and  rebuked. 

The  meeting  between  himself  and  his  wife  was 
quiet,  and  slightly  reserved  on  both  sides  ;  yet  in 
the  manner  of  each,  there  was  a  new  spirit  of 
kindness.  Doubly  guarded  was  Mr.  Hardy,  lest, 
in  a  thoughtless  moment,  he  should  wound  a 
sensitive  nature,  which  he  now  felt  prompted  to 
shield  from  assault. 

The  deep,  interior  gratification  felt  by  Mrs 
Hardy,  at  the  favourable  change  in  her  husband, 
following  so  quickly  upon  a  change  in  her  own 
manner  towards  him,  was  not  unmingled  with 
painful  regrets  for  past  neglect  of  duty. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "if  I  have  suffered,  have   I 


BETTER   DATS.  263 

not  also  occasioned  suffering  !  If  my  cup  has  been 
very  bitter,  has  not  his  been  bitter  also  ?  A  wife 
should  be  as  the  sun  in  her  husband's  dwelling ; 
but  I  have  not  been  even  as  the  moon  or  stars !" 

A  deep  sigh  passed  her  lips.  It  reached  her 
husband's  ears ;  and — a  thing  unusual — did  not 
fret  him  as  of  old,  though  he  was  a  man  who  had 
little  sympathy  with  sighs  and  tears.  Much  easier 
than  she  had  hoped  to  find  them,  were  the  new 
duties  which  Mrs.  Hardy  had  prescribed  for  her 
self.  The  first  effort  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
difficult.  It  was  hard  to  forget  self — to  change 
the  habits  of  years — to  be  kind  towards  and 
thoughtful  of  another  who  had  made  her  life 
wretched  beyond  the  power  of  words  to  express. 
But  after  a  beginning  was  made — and,  more  par 
ticularly,  after  the  unexpected  change  in  her  hus 
band's  manner,  which  that  beginning  had  produced 
— the  task  was  easier,  and  her  reward  was  with  her. 

From  that  time  forth,  Mrs.  Hardy  walked  in  a 
plainer  way,  and  there  was  light  ahead.  Upon 
this  light  she  fixed  her  eyes,  and  moved  steadily 
onward.  If,  from  the  force  of  habit,  thought  in 
verted  upon  itself,  and  old  melancholy  states  began 
to  return,  she  found,  in  a  sympathetic  regard  for 
the  good  of  others,  a  sustaining  and  a  comforting 
power.  The  ground  of  her  mind  thus  prepared,  a 
religious  principle  took  deep  root.  But  hers  \v;i;> 
not  a  mere  religion  of  pious  forms,  or  sanctimonious 


THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

observances;  it  was  a  religion  whose  essential 
worship  of  God  was  evinced  in  a  life  of  daily 
charity.  Circumscribed  was  this  charity,  inaiply 
by  the  metes  and  bounds  of  her  home-circle ;  but 
it  had  scope  enough  for  exercise  there. 

One  only  friend  could  open  the  door  of  her 
heart ;  but  that  friend  was  not  her  husband.  To 
him  it  was  closed  for  ever.  Once  he  had  the  key, 
and  might  have  entered  in  and  possessed  it  as  a 
kingdom.  But  that  time  had  long  since  passed, 
and  would  no  more  return. 

There  is  always  an  attractive  beauty  in  the  truly 
Christian  spirit,  let  who  will  be  its  possessor  ;  and 
only  what  is  unselfish  is  truly  Christian.  Even 
the  selfish  can  see  an  attraction  about  every  one 
who  acts  unselfishly.  The  power  of  this  new  prin 
ciple — the  fruit  of  daily  effort  as  well  as  of  daily 
prayer  to  Him  who  alone  can  lift  the  heart  out  of 
its  natural  loves,  which  all  turn  inwards — gave  to 
the  whole  life  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  at  least  in  the  eyes 
of  her  husband,  a  dignity  that  claimed  respect, 
and  a  nameless  charm  that  extorted  an  almost 
unwilling  admiration.  After  the  first  few  weeks 
of  wonder  on  Mr.  Hardy's  part,  and  an  effort  on 
the  part  of  his  wife  to  be  and  to  seem  all  that  her 
position  required  of  her,  the  new  order  of  tilings 
moved  on  with  an  easy  progression.  Prompt, 
kind,  considerate  of  all  around  her,  and  especially 
considerate  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Hardy  removed 


BETTER   DATS.  265 

the  temptation  to  oppress  her  out  of  his  way. 
Never  claiming  anything  for  herself,  never  seeming 
to  think  of  herself,  but  always  seeking  to  benefit 
others,  or  to  give  them  pleasure,  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  feel  unkindness,  or  to  find  occasion 
for  blame. 

Gradually,  his  whole  treatment  of  his  wife 
assumed  a  new  character.  Daily,  since  that 
memorable  evening  on  which  he  had  noted  a 
gentler  expression  on  her  face,  had  she  continued 
changing  in  his  eyes,  growing  more  and  more 
like  the  true  woman  of  his  imagination,  yet  seem 
ing  all  the  while  to  recede  farther  from  him.  And 
she  did  recede  farther  and  farther  every  day, 
rapidly  acquiring  spiritual  qualities  and  character 
istics  so  different  from  those  of  her  husband,  that 
actual  heart-sympathy  was  impossible. 

Wonderful  also  was  the  change  in  Mrs.  Hardy's 
countenance.  First,  the  deadly  pallor  gave  place 
to  the  faintest  life-tints,  and  the  inward-looking, 
lustreless  eyes,  grew  bright  with  feeling.  Their 
old  depths  of  beauty  were  restored.  She  had  once 
been  very  lovely.  This  charm  had  faded  away, 
until,  to  common  eyes,  but  little  that  was  attrac 
tive  remained.  Yet  now  her  beauty  was  again 
renewed — not  the  old  beauty,  which  was  of  the 
earth,  earthly — but  a  new  beauty,  which  was  of 
neaven,  heavenly, — the  beauty  as  of  an  angel  I 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

iff* 


•  Oh  1  change,  —  oh  !  wondrous  change  ( 

Burst  are  the  prison-bars! 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars  I 

"  Oh  !  change,  stupendous  change  ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  1 
The  sun  eternal  breaks, 
The  new  immortal  wakes, 

Wakes  with  his  God  1  "  —  C.  BOWLES. 

BETWEEN  Mrs.  Hardy  and  Mrs.  Percival,  the 
closest  intimacy  continued.  They  were,  incV  -u, 
sister-spirits.  Both  had  passed  through  the  fire, 
and  both  were  purer  from  the  ordeal.  Mrs.  Per 
cival  was  wiser  and  stronger  ;  and  though  the 
anguish  of  her  soul  had  been  great,  no  faltering 
of  step  or  fainting  by  the  way  had  occurred.  As 
a  true  woman,  she  had  now  drawn  to  the  side  of 
a  suffering  sister,  and  extended  a  hand  for  sup 
port  and  guidance.  Wise  had  been  her  counsels, 
loving  her  ministrations,  faithful  to  the  highest 
good  her  friendship.  Neither  was  happy  in  her 
marriage-relation;  neither  had  found  the  soul's 
true  companion  ;  yet,  in  no  instance,  in  all  their 


THE   SEPARATION.  26*i 

confidential  intercourse,  had  either  of  them  uttered 
a  reproach  against  her  husband.  Concerning  the 
gentlemen,  no  words  involving  censure  were 
suffered  to  escape  them.  That  was  an  indelicacy 
of  which  neither  was  capable.  And  yet  both  fully 
comprehended  the  other's  position ;  and  each  gained 
strength  from  the  other  to  act  the  wife's  part  faith 
fully,  if  not  lovingly. 

Two  years  of  a  new  and  better  life  for  Mrs. 
Hardy  passed  on,  altering  her  whole  appearance 
to  such  a  degree,  that  all  who  remembered  her 
former  drooping  form,  and  shrunken,  depressed 
countenance,  wondered  as  they  looked  upon  her. 
To  her  husband  she  was  a  mystery,  and  had 
been  so  from  the  beginning  of  this  new  state. 
Had  he  ever  comprehended  her  ? 

And  now,  another  cycle  in  her  life  seemed  to 
have  been  completed ;  for  there  was  another 
change.  The  feeble,  exhausted  body,  which  had 
caught  a  fresh  vigour  from  the  re-animating  spirit, 
and  had  put  on  the  beautiful  semblance  of  health, 
began  to  fail — steadily,  but  surely.  The  cheek 
paled  once  more,  the  step  grew  slow  and  feeble, 
the  eye  weary.  Ere  the  day  went  down,  the 
delicate  framework  of  her  body  was  oppressed  by 
exhaustion. 

Quickest  to  note  these  symptoms  was  her  hus 
band,  and  first  to  propose  change  and  relaxation. 
All  that  care  and  kindness  on  his  part  could  do,— 


268  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

all  that  the  physician's  art  could  accomplish,—' 
availed  not.  The  life-sources  of  her  being-  were 
exhausted.  Daily  she  became  thinner  and  more 
pale,  until  she  seemed  only  a  shadow  that  mignt 
soon  flit  away. 

Even  amid  all  this  wasting  of  the  feeble  body 
and  waning  of  its  life,  she  grew  more  and  more 
attractive  in  her  husband's  eyes.  He  felt  tne 
angelic  purity  of  her  character,  and  trembled  as 
the  fatal  truth  of  her  speedy  removal  grew  daily 
more  apparent.  How  he  longed  to  win  the  love 
of  her  purified  spirit — to  draw  her  into  himself — 
to  possess  her  as  his  own;  and  he  became  the 
more  eager,  as  the  steady  recession  of  her  spirit 
went  on,  and  the  sad  conviction  intruded  itself 
that,  in  a  ve'ry  little  while,  he  should  see  her  on 
earth  no  more. 

In  no  case  did  Mrs.  Hardy  repel  her  husband — 
in  no  case  manifest,  to  his  perceptions,  the  entire 
alienation  of  her  spiritual  life  from  his.  Gentle, 
kind,  earnest,  thoughtful, — she  never  failed  in 
service  until  the  accumulation  of  good  deeds 
really  oppressed  him. 

"  Do  not  think  so  much  of  my  comfort,  Jane/ 
he  would  sometimes  remark,  when  met  by  new 
proofs  of  her  loving  care  for  his  pleasure — "  think 
more  of  yourself." 

Mr.  Hardy  felt  the  heavenly  warmth  of  the 
smile  that  would  play  around  her  lips  and  over 


THE   SEPARATION.  269 

her  countenance ;  but  the  source  of  that  smile 
was  hidden  from  his  eyes.  It  lay  too  far  down 
in  the  deep  places  of  her  soul  for  his  dim  vision 
to  reach.  It  was  the  smile  of  an  angel;  born  of 
heavenly  joy,  at  the  recognition  that  a  truer  and 
better  life  was  kindling  in  the  heart  of  one  who 
had  long  beek  ruled  br  the  spirit  of  selfishness. 

How  the  strong  man  bowed  himself  at  the  feot 
of  angelic  beauty !  He  was  gentle  as  a  child — 
tender  as  a  woman — devoted  as  a  lover.  All  the 
hours  of  the  day  seemed  spent  in  thoughtful  care 
for  his  wife.  In  the  morning  he  lingered  at  her 
bedside ;  in  the  evening  he  hastened  home  to  take 
his  place  near  her  pillow,  and  hold  within  his 
grasp  her  shadowy  hand.  What  a  new  spirit  per 
vaded  the  household  !  What  a  new  life  was  there* 
among  the  children!  It  had  been  one  of  the 
things  nearest  to  the  heart  of  the  failing  wife  and 
mother  to  create  a  true  sympathy  between  the 
children  and  their  father,  so  that  when  she  passed 
from  among  them,  they  might  draw  together  by 
the  powerful  attraction  of  love.  And  she  had  not 
worked  in  vain. 

For  a  time,  indeed,  Helen  remained  like  ice 
towards  her  father.  Thought  and  perception 
had,  through  his  cruelty  in  separating  her  from 
her  mother,  acquired  too  rapid  a  development; 
and  the  woman's  instincts  gained  maturity  faster 
than  the  woman's  self-controlling  reason. 


270  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

The  cold  selfishness  of  her  father  had  snnofeed 
and  repelled  her,  and  there  had  been  periods 
when,  but  for  her  mother,  she  would  have  ned 
from  his  presence.  At  length,  Mrs.  Hardy  suc 
ceeded  in  creating  in  the  mind  of  her  daughter  a 
feeling  of  kindness  towards  the  father.  She  began 
by  assigning  to  her  the  daily  performance  of  a 
certain  service  that  she  knew  would  gratify  him. 
An  expression  of  pleasure  on  his  part  was  Helen's 
first  reward  ;  then  followed  a  word  of  praise,  when 
he  learned  to  whose  hand  he  was  indebted  for  a 
daily  service.  From  that  time,  a  new  state  of 
feeling  was  created  in  the  heart  of  each.  The 
father  and  child  drew  together  with  an  hourly 
increasing  affection,  and  joined  hands  lovingly  in 
the  work  of  ministering  to  the  angel  of  their 
house,  whose  wings  were  already  lifting  them 
selves,  and  ready  for  the  departure. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  conviction 
forced  itself  upon  the  miud  of  John  Hardy,  that 
John  Hardy  was  not  right! — that,  in  his  stern 
persistence,  he  had  been  wrong!  What  a  convic 
tion  for  a  man  of  his  character  !  What  a  world  of 
blind,  cruel  selfishness  was  revealed  to  his  inward- 
glancing  vision,  as  light  broke  in  ! 

The  strong  man  bowed  his  head,  yea,  and  his 
humbled  spirit  also,  to  the  dust.  Memory  sud 
denly  became  an  avenger,  holding  in  her  vigorous 
hand  q,  whip  of  scorpions,  as  she  steadily  turned 


THE   SEPARATION.  271 

over  the  leaves  of  his  book  of  life.  How  earnestly 
he  tried  to  look  away  from  the  past;  to  shut  hi/* 
eyes,  as  page  after  page  was  unfolded,  and  the 
accusing  record  shown  !  But  that  was  impossible. 
What  had  been  done,  could  not  be  undone. 

Steadily  waned  the  life  of  Mrs.  Hardy,  and 
every  day  the  eyes  of  watchful  love' saw  new  signs 
of  the  speedily  coming  dissolution  of  soul  and  body. 

"  We  shall  meet  again,"  said  the  husband,  as 
he  sat  alone  with  her,  holding  her  small  shadowy 
hand  in  his,  just  as  the  twilight  began  to  draw  its 
dusky  curtains  around  them.  His  voice  trembled; 
for  he  fyad  spoken  in  answer  to  her  remark  that, 
iii  a  very  little  while,  she  must  pass  away. 

"  I  know  not  how  that  may  be,"  she  said,  very 
quietly,  and  fixing  her  large,  glittering  eyes  upon 
his  face.  "  In  the  world  to  which  1  am  going, 
the  laws  of  association  are  not  as  the  laws  of  this 
world,  John." 

"  Oh,  Jane  !  what  am  I  to  understand  by  this  ?" 
There  was  grief  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

"  Only,"  she  replied,  "  that,  in  the  life  to  come, 
spiritual  qualities  conjoin.  They  will  be  near 
each  other  who  are  alike,  and  those  distant  from 
each  other  who  are  unlike,  in  their  life  and  their 
affections.  The  attraction  or  repulsion  will  be 
mutual.  B  A  God  alone  knows  our  internal  states, 
by  which  the  future  is  determined.  If  it  is  well 
with  us  as  to  these,  we  need  have  no  concern." 


272  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

Mr.  Hardy  felt  the  words  of  his  wife  like  sharp 
thrusts  of  glittering  steel.  How  calmly  she  spoke  } 
"What  a  placid,  almost  angelic  expression  was  in 
her  countenance,  as  she  talked  of  the  laws  of  con 
junction  and  dissociation  in  the  future  life — laws 
which,  if  they  really  prevailed,  would  hold  them 
apart  for  ever !  "  I  know  not  how  that  may  be. 
In  the  world  to  which  I  am  going,  the  laws  of 
association  are  not  as  the  laws  of  this  world." 
Such  was  her  calm,  even-toned  answer  to  his 
almost  tearfully-uttered  assurance  of  a  meeting 
after  death.  It  wras  thus  she  removed  from  under 
his  feet  the  frail  support  on  which  they  rested 
as  the  waters  of  sorrow  began  to  roar  around 
him.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
sat  silent  for  many  minutes. 

"  Can  you  not  forgive  the  past  ?  Oh,  Jane ! 
If,  through  blind  error,  I  wronged  you  once,  have 
I  not  sought  in  all  possible  ways  to  make  atone 
ment  ?"  Mr.  Hardy  looked  up  and  spoke  with  o. 
sudden  energy. 

A  shadow  dimmed  the  face  of  his  wife,  and 
tears  sprung  to  her  eyes. 

"  We  have  both  need  of  forgiveness,  John/' 
she  replied ;  "  I,  perhaps,  most  of  all.  We  cannot 
conceal  from  ourselves,  if  we  would,  that  the  cur 
rent  nf  our  lives  did  not  run  smoothly  at  the 
beginning,  nor  for  a  long  time  afterwards.  The 
cords  that  bound  us  together  were  not  silken,  and 


THE    SEPARATION.  273 

light  as  gossamer  to  bear;  but  heavy  and  galling 
as  links  of  iron.  I  blame  myself  in  many  tilings. 
I  was  not  a  true,  self-forgetting,  loving  wife  to 
you,  John.  I  did  not  make  your  home  a  happy 
one.  I  struggled,  and  fretted,  and  made  my  soil 
wretched,  when  I  should  have  thought  of  youi 
comfort,  and  striven,  in  fulfilment  of  my  marriage- 
vows,  to  make  you  happy  !  " 

"  Dear  Jane  !  say  no  more  !  Your  words  pierce 
me  like  arrows !"  Mr.  Hardy  laid  a  finger  upon 
her  lips.  "  Oh,  if  the  scales  had  sooner  fallen 
from  my  eyes  ! " 

"  If  I  had  helped  you  to  remove  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Hardy,  almost  mournfully,  "  both  would 
have  suffered  less.  But  I  was  young,  and  weak 
from  years  of  indulgence  by  the  tenderest  oi 
fathers.  I  did  not  comprehend  your  wants  and 
wishes  ;  and  you  did  not  understand  me.  I  nrvei 
meant  to  act  in  opposition,  and  never  did,  wilfully 
and  perversely.  I  never  intended  to  give  you  p;iin 
But  I  could  not  hide  all  signs  of  anguish,  when 
your  words  were  accusations.  Nor  could  I  always 
look  smiling  and  cheerful,  when  my  heart  was 
aching.  I  say  this  now,  only  that  you  may  do  me 
justice  in  your  thoughts :  for  I  would  not  have 
you  think  of  me,  after  I  am  gone,  as  one  who, 
designedly,,  and  for  the  purpose  of  gratifying 
an  evil  purpose,  made  the  home  cheerless  which 
she  had  promised  to  fill  with  sunlight  God  gave 

T2 


274  THE   WITHERED   HEAttT. 

me  power  afterwards  to  rise  above  the  weakness 
of  my  nature ;  and  I  was  able  to  be  to  you,  my 
husbanxl,  all  that  I  desired  to  be  from  the  begin 
ning.  If  you  had  helped  me,  and  borne  with  me 
at  the  first ;  if  you  had  been  gentler  and  more  for 
bearing  ;  if  you  had  laid  your  hand  lightly  on 
what  seemed  wrong;  if  you  had  regarded  me  as 
d  weak,  inexperienced  girl,  sensitive  to  a  fault, 
yet  full  of  the  purest  lore  for  you,  and  not  as  a 
matured,  thoughtful  wr  man,  with  a  strong  purpose 
to  have  her  own  way,  you  would  have  judged  me 
more  correctly,  and  it  would  have  been  better  for 
us  both.  But  the  past  is  past,  and  I  turn  to  it 
only  for  justice,  not  in  order  to  wound.  Forgive 
me  for  what  I  have  nowr  said,  if  it  has  given  you 
any  pain.  I  cannot,  in  parting  with  you,  perhaps 
for  ever,  leave  on  your  mind  the  impression  that 
I  ever  meant  to  be  anything  but  a  true  wife." 

"For  ever,  Jane?  For  ever?  Oh,  do  not  say 
that  word!  Let  me  hear  your  lips  recall  it!" 
ATH!  Mr.  Hardy  bent  over  her  with  a  countenance 
full  of  anguish. 

Mrs.  Hardy,  after  a  slight  pause,  resolved  on 
giving  utterance  to  the  following  truths,  just  be 
cause  they  were  truths,  and  best  therefore  to  be 
Spoken,  even  if  they  failed  in  affording  any  present 
comfort.-  There  were  few  signs  of  earthly  emotion 
in  her  low  voice,  musical  though  it  was  with 
angelic  affections. 


THE   SEPARATION.  275 

"A  woman's  heart,  John,  is  a  stiange  instru 
ment,  and  few  men  have  learned  to  play  upon  it 
skilfully.  In  most  cases,  the  hold  hand  is  dashed 
roughly  amid  its  delicate  strings,  shattering  some, 
straining  others,  and  silencing  for  ever  chords 
that  would  have  trembled  with  delightful  har 
monies.  It  is  woman's  nature  to  love.  To  her, 
love  is  an  eternal  necessity.  But  this  love  is  a 
free  principle.  No  power,  in  earth  or  heaven  can 
bind  its  impulses.  It  goes  forth  spontaneously 
and  takes  hold,  like  a  vine,  upon  "some  manly 
nature,  seeking  to  give  beauty  and  grace,  and  lift 
ing  itself  up  thereby  into  higher  and  purer  regions. 
It  binds  its  arms  gently,  yet  firmly,  around  this 
sustaining  manhood,  and  bears  its  fruitful  clusters 
of  blessing.  And  the  more  it  is  cherished  and  pro 
tected,  the  stronger  it  grows,  and  the  more  inti 
mately  and  lovingly  does  it  entwine  itself  amid 
all  the  outspreading  branches.  There  is  nothing 
hard,  nor  harsh — nothing  of  opposition  or  conten 
tion — nothing  of  proud  self-sustaining  isolation  in 
the  nature  of  a  true  woman.  She  asks  only  the 
right  to  love,  and  the  joy  of  being  loved  in  return. 

"  In  this  world,  where  hearts  are  hidden  things, 
and  woman  must  believe  where  she  cannot  see — 
must  take  loving  words  and  acts  in  the  full  con 
fidence  that  they  are  true  words  and  acts — il  too 
often  happens,  that  her  lot  is  one  of  wretchedness. 
The  fair  exterior  of  manhood,  so  attractive  iu  hei 


276  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

eyes,  often  proves  to  be  a  false  exterior.  She  finds 
nothing  in  his  aifection  or  his  principles  with 
which  she  can  truly  harmonize;  and,  though  she 
may  live  with  him  dutifully,  and  even  in  some 
appearance  of  love,  yet  is  there  no  true  union  of 
the  heart — no  marriage  in  the  higher  sense. 

"  With  such,  death  is  an  eternal  disjunction. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  in  a  world  where  simi 
litude  conjoins,  and  dissimilitude  separates  ?  And 
this  law  of  attraction  and  repulsion,  my  husband," 
continued  Mrs.  Hardy,  speaking  very  earnestly, 
"  is  a  merciful  law.  If  there  is  an  *>rvor  here,  it 
will  not  be  perpetuated  when  we  pass  up  higher. 
Of  one  thing  we  may  be  certain  ;  the  quality  of 
our  spiritual  life  in  this  world,  will  determine  our 
associations  in  the  life  beyond;  and  in  heaven  we 
shall  desire  none  other." 

Mr.  Hardy  had  bowed  his  head  while  she  was 
speaking.  It  was  some  moments  before  he  looked 
up.  When  he  did  so,  his  face  was  paler,  his  eyes 
were  heavy,  and  his  countenance  wore  a  drooping 
aspect.  What  sharp  arrows  of  conviction  were  in 
the  words  which  had  been  spoken  by  his  wife ! 
Steadily  he  gazed  into  he-r  face,  wonderingly  and 
sorrowfully,  while  every  moment  the  conviction 
grew  stronger  that  their  separation  was  likely  to  be 
an  eternal  one  ; — that  her  pure  spirit  would  ascend 
higher  than  he  ever  could,  and  claim  companion 
ship  with  spirits  of  more  godlike  nature 


THE    SEPARATION.  277 

Neither  made  any  further  remark  for  some  time, 
and  then  the  theme  was  changed.  Not  again, 
even  remotely,  was  the  subject  of  their  unhappy 
lives  referred  to  hy  either.  Mrs.  Hardy  had 
spoken  only  from  a  sense  of  duty.  If  pain 
followed  her  words,  it  was  a  salutary  pain.  It 
would  be  better  for  him  to  comprehend  the  inevi 
table  laws  of  retribution ; — better  for  his  future 
and  eternal  state,  in  contrast  with  which  all  finite 
considerations  are  as  dust  against  gold  in  the  balance. 

A  few  days  later,  and  the  closing  scene  arrived. 
With  the  last  .flutteriirg  of  her  pulse,  the  last  faint 
sigh  that  parted  her  lips  and  gently  moved  her 
bosom,  Mr.  Hardy  felt  that  he  had  indeed  parted 
with  his  wife  ;  and,  he  feared,  for  ever  !  God  had 
given  him,  as  a  companion,  a  true,  loving  spirit, 
who  would  have  been  an  angel  in  his  house  ;  but 
in  his  selfish  blindness,  he  had  wronged  and 
cruelly  oppressed  her  from  the  outset ;  and  when 
his  eyes  were  opened,  and  he  saw  the  celestial 
beauty  of  her  character,  she  was  fading  from  the 
earth,  and  rising  upwards.  It  was  too  late! — 
Alas !  alas !  how  many,  like  him,  have  made  a 
similar  discovery  too  late! 

A  different  man  was  he  from  that  time  forth. 
Among  the  last  words  of  his  dying  wife  were  these  : 
"  He  tender  with  Helen  :  she  is  more  like  me  than 
any  of  the  rest."  Did  he  forget  them  ?  No ! 
They  seemed  constantly  sounding  in  his  ears.  In 


278  THE    WITHERED    HEART. 

form  and  features,  as  well  as  in  disposition,  Helen 
was  like  her  mother;  and  now  that  the  mother's 
presence  was  removed,  this  likeness  grew  daily 
more  apparent.  In  stature,  carriage,  and  voice, 
she  resembled  her  mother,  as  much  as  in  counte 
nance  and  disposition.  And  so  a  living  remem 
brance  of  the  lost  one  was  ever  kept  before  the 
father's  mind. 

His  thoughtful,  never-wearying,  affectionate 
care,  now  turned  with  undying  devotion  upon  his 
eldest  child — who  had  felt  towards  him  an  almost 
entire  alienation,  and  whose  remembrances  of  the 
past  were  painfully  vivid.  But  he  won,  at  last, 
her  love  and  confidence ;  and  warm  affection  took 
the  place  of  duty. 

Mr.  Hardy  aged  rapidly  after  the  death  of  his 
wife.  He  separated  himself  almost  entirely  from 
general  society,  ane1  lived  a  kind  of  hermit-life 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  Four  years  later, 
and  prematurely  old,  stooping  and  life-weary,  he 
laid  down  the  burden  of  mortality.  Helen  was 
still  unmarried ;  but  her  life  was  beautiful.  She 
was  the  maiden  sister,  caring  for  all,  beloved  by 
all,  and  diffusing  around  her  a  heavenly  atmo 
sphere  that  made  her  presence  an  inspiration.  And 
so  her  existence  moved  on  like  a  quiet  stream, 
glassing  the  daily  sunshine,  and  bearing  along 
its  way,  health,  and  greenness,  and  beauty 


CHAPTER  XXII 

iton. 


*'I>5e  Lieb'  ein  bransend  Meer,  wo  im  Gewimmel 
VieltausendfJiltig  Wog'  an  Woge  seliliigt: 
Frenudsehaft  ein  tiefer  Bergsee,  der  den  Himmel 
Klar  \viederspiegelnd  in  den  Flntheu  triigt."  —  GEiBSfc. 

"Love  is  a  raging  ocean, 

Where,  in  confus'd  motion, 

Ten  thousand  thousand  waves  are  dashing  high; 
But  friendship  aye  resembles 
The  moil  ntaJu-t;i  m,  where  trembles 
A  flood  sereue,  and  mirrors  back  the  sky.  " 

TRAS4LATI03 

HAPPY  would  it  be  for  the  world,  if  evil  con- 
sequences  died  away,  when  those  die  who  have 
perpetrated  the  evil,  and  originated  its  dire  re 
sults.  But  wrong  as  well  as  right  has  a  ropro« 
ductive  power;  and  the  circle  of  baneful  influence, 
no  less  than  that  of  influence  for  good,  is  ever 
growing  wider  and  wider.  It  is  with  onr  every 
action,  as  it  is  with  the  first  disturbing  force  that 
ripples  the  lake's  placid  surface,  and  thus  stirs 
nto  existence  a  hundred  concentric  circles,  which 
upread  away  in  the  distance  until  the  eye  is 
baffled  in  its  attempts  to  trace  and  number  them. 

On  this  principle  it  is,  that  we  feel   constrained 
to  furnish  the  sequel   without  which    our   narrative 


280  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

would  he  incomplete.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hardy  slum 
bered  in  the  grave ;  but  being  dead,  they  yet 
spoke.  There  were  those  living  who  had  been 
moulded  under  their  training,  who  had  lived  in 
their  .presence,  who  had  been  witnesses  of  their 
ho7ne-life. 

Helen,  the  eldest  sister,  as  she  advanced  along 
the  cycle  of  womanhood,  and  as  all  the  pure  ex 
cellence  of  her  character  impressed  itself  in  beauty 
on  her  countenance,  won  the  love  of  many ;  and 
not  a  few  were  the  suitors  who  came  to  her, 
speaking  words  that  rarely  sound  in  a  maiden's 
ear  without  causing  her  heart  to  thrill.  When 
she  recalled  so  much  of  her  mother's  history  as 
sl.e  could  comprehend,  it  made  her  shudder  and 
shrink  back  from  the  thought  of  marriage.  She 
felt  that  she  dared  not  meet  the  chances.  And 
yet,  true  woman  as  she  was,  she  felt  a  deep 
yearning  for  companionship — and  for  a  love,  the 
foundations  of  which  were  laid  far  down  in  the 
deep  places  of  her  soul. 

Among  the  suitors  for  the  hand  of  Helen,  was 
a  young  man  named .  Edward  Linton.  He  was 
worthy  to  possess  her ;  and  to  say  thus  much  is 
to  make  a  large  admission  in  his  favour.  As  he 
approached,  she  receded ; — as  he  sought  to  unlock 
the  door  of  her  heart,  she  double-bolted  it  upon 
the  inside. 

"  I  have  seen  one  heart  withered  uj. . — one  life 


BDWARD   LINTON.  281 

made  wretched  beyond  the  power  of  language  to 
describe,"  she  said  to  herself ; — "  and  I  will  not 
venture  the  precious  freight  of  a  woman's  love  in 
one  frail  human  vessel.  I  will  not  put  it  in  the 
power  of  any  man  to  trample  upon  a  heart  that 
prefers  loneliness  to  wrong — and  unsatisfied  yearn 
ings  to  a  cruel  bondage." 

Yet,  even  as  she  said  this  to  fortify  her  resolu 
tions,  the  sound  of  Edward  Linton's  voice  echoed 
faintly,  but  very  musically,  from  some  far-off 
chamber  of  her  soul,  which  it  had  reached  in 
spite  of  all  the  interposing  barriers. 

Edward  was  one  of  the  successors  to  her  father's 
business,  and  also  an  executor  under  his  will. 
This  naturally  brought  them  frequently  together 
in  a  business-relation,  and  made  his  visits  to  the 
family  almost  a  thing  of  course.  Wuh  Helen's 
brothers  and  sisters  he  was  a  favourite; ;  and  his 
place  in  her  own  regard  was  higher  than  that  of 
any  man  she  had  ever  met.  Had  her  life-expe 
riences  been  different — had  there  been  with  her 
no  haunting  memories  of  woman's  wedded  wrongs, 
her  heart  would  have  leaped  to  his  words  of  love 
with  a  joyful  impulse.  As  it  was,  she  closed  her 
cars,  and  resolutely  repre'ssed  her  inmost  feelings. 

Uut,  with  Edward  Linton,  the  love  of  this  pure 

and   beautiful   maiden  was  no   passing   emotion. 

Not   suddenly  had  it  been  born  ;    for  tlu.re  was 

such  a  shy  reserve  about  Helen — such  a  sluriiikiug 

I 


£82  THE   WITHERED    HEART, 

away  from  observation — that  he  did  not  at  first 
Comprehend  her  true  worth.  When  once  he  diJ, 
the  entrance -way  for  any  other  love  was  closed  foi 
ever  in  his  heart. 

It  was  on  a  pleas&r.t  June  evening  that  he  ven 
tured  to  speak  plainly  of  the  love  which  he  had 
already  manifested  in  a  thousand  little  acts  and 
words  that  no  maiden  could  misunderstand.  They 
were  walking  home  from  a  friend's  house  at  which 
Edward  had  called  for  her — not  by  appointment, 
but  of  his  own  accord,  and  with  the  express  pur 
pose  of  securing  an  opportunity  to  tell  her  of 
what  was  first  in  his  thought  at  morning-dawn, 
and  last  in  his  thought  when  the  night-shadows 
closed  in  temporary  oblivion  around  him.  He  did 
not  feed  the  hand  tremble  that  rested  on  his  arm  ; 
nor  was  there  any  visible  emotion  in  the  lo\v, 
sweet  voice — always  sweet  to  his  ears — that  an 
swered, 

"  Be  to  me  a  brother,  Edward — and  let  me  be 
as  your  sister.  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  Oh,  Helen !  Helen !  you  must  recall  those 
words,"  said  Edward,  with  a  grief  in  his  tones 
that  could  not  be  concealed  ;  for  he  was  unpre 
pared  to  meet  so  calmly-spoken,  and  so  distinct  a 
denial  of  his  suit. 

"  Never ! "  With  what  a  deep,  calm  earnest 
ness  was  the  word  spoken.  "Ne^er!"  It  was 
repeated  with  even  a  deeper  emphasis.  "  Never  I ' 


EDWARD   LINTOW.  283 

she  added,  as  if  to  extinguish  all  hope  in  the  mind 
of  her  lover. 

"  Helen  !"  The  young  man  grasped  her  hand, 
and  held  it  very  tightly,  even  though  she  made  a 
feeble  effort  to  remove  it.  "  Helen — dear  Helen  ! 
This  must  not  be.  I  will  not  say' over  again  the 
words  I  have  just  spoken ;  nor  add  others  of  like 
import.  Truly  have  I  told  you  of  my  love — a 
love  that  can  never  die.  If  1  am  one  you  cannot 
love"— 

"No,  Edward,"  was  the  quick  answer,  breaking 
in  upon  the  words  he  was  about  to  utter ;  "  as  a 
friend  and  brother,  you  are  more  highly  esteemed 
than  any  other.  Be  to  me  still  a  friend  and 
brother.  But  seek  no  nearer  relationship ; — for 
I  am  resolved  ^o  pass  through  this  mortal  exist 
ence  unfettered  and  free.  No  man's  happiness 
shall  be  marred  by  the  inharmonious  action  of  my 
life,  and  I  will  not  risk  the  destruction  of  my  own 
through  want  of  harmony  in  another's  life  indis- 
solubly  linked  to  mine."* 

"  Oh,  Helen  ! — Sister  ! — if  you  will  let  me  call 
you  by  no  dearer  name — but  sister  only  now, — in 
what  false  school  have  you  learned  this  strange 
philosophy?" 

"  I  have  learned  it  in  the  stern  school  of  life, 
Edward,"  was  answered  with  unwavering  calm 
ness.  "  Very  early  I  took  my  first  lessons — very 
early  were  my  eyes  opened  to  the  real,  sad,  heart 


284  THE    WITHERED  HEART. 

breaking  realities  around  me ;  and  I  have  been  a 
learner  and  an  observer  ever  since.  That  my 
mother  was  not  a  happy  woman,  I  need  not  tell 
you,  Edward ;  and  yet  she  was  a  true,  loving 
woman,  capable  of  the  highest  happiness; — a 
truer,  better,  and  more  loving  woman  than  I  am, 
or  ever  shall  he.  If  she  had  not  married,  her  life 
would  have  passed  along  beautifully  and  tran 
quilly,  like  a  pleasant  stream  through  grassy  mea 
dows.  But  it  fretted  and  chafed  for  years  amid 
rocky  channels ;  was  lost  for  a  time  in  the  hot 
sands  of  an  arid  desert ;  and  only  became  clear 
and  fertilizing  at  last  through  God's  infinite  pity 
for  one  of  His  wronged  and  suffering  children." 

"  If  she  had  not  married,"  said  the  young  man, 
slowly  and  impressively,  "  you  would  never  have 
been  born.  Think  of  that,  and  then  tell  me 
whether  her  life,  even  though  passed  in  suffering, 
was  a  vain  life  ?  Can  you  turn  y  mr  conscious 
ness  inward,  and  after  considering  yourself  as  you 
are,  wish  that  you  had  never  received  the  gift  of 
being — or,  that  you  had  been  endowed  with  any 
other  individuality  than  your  own?" 

"  Your  questions  bewilder  me,  Edward,"  said 
the  maiden,  seeming  almost  to  catch  her  breath. 

"  Try  to  answer  them  to  your  own  satisfaction," 
he  replied. 

"  1  can  never  lope  to  do  that.  As  I  am,  God 
made  me :  and  1  ask  not  to  be  changed,  except 


EDWARD    LINTON.  2^5 

"rom  e\il  to  good.  But  as  for  marriage  that  is  a 
new  condition  of  life,  voluntarily  assumed.  I  have 
thought  long  and  often  of  this  matter,  Edward  ; — 
I  have  deeply  pondered  it  in  my  heart,  and  you 
knoAV  my  life-enduring  conclusion.  I  will  not 
trust  my  happiness  in  the  keeping  of  any  man 
The  risk  is  too  great." 

"  You  may  safely  trust  it  in  my  hands,"  was 
the  answer,  in  tones  of  winning  tenderness. 

"  It  is  in  vain,  Edward.  I  question  not  your 
high  honour,  nor  your  deep  sincerity.  But  no 
man  can  rightly  understand  a  woman.  There  are 
wants  in  her  nature — capacities  of  loving  and 
suffering — that  lie  too  deep  down  in  her  soul  for 
the  plummet-line  of  his  perceptions  to  reach.  No, 
Edward — I  understand  myself  too  well  to  risk 
everything  on  the  experiment  of  marriage.  Not 
only  should  I  be  the  loser,  if  the  experiment  were 
to  prove  disastrous  ; — you  would  be  a  sufferer  also. 
Bound  together  for  life,  in  bonds  that  no  human 
hands  could  unloose,  both  would  be  wretched.  If 
I  were  miserable,  could  you  be  happy  ?  Impos 
sible  ! " 

"  It  grieves  me  to  hear  you  speak  thus,  Helen," 
replied  her  lover, — "  grieves  me  deeply  for  your 
sake  as  well  as  my  own.  Your  views  have  be 
come  strangely  warped ; — your  feelings  are  morbid, 
not  healthy." 

"Just  the  reason  why  I  should  not  marry, 
•  2 


286  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

Edward — and  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  will  not 
I  admit  all  you  say.  My  life  has  not  been  a 
healthy  one.  I  have  had  experiences  that  changed 
the  child-life  into  the  woman's  life  too  early,  and 
gave  to  it  a  morbidly  sensitive  development.  I 
should  be  for  ever  in  danger  of  misapprehension. 
An  unkind  look  would  be  to  me  a  blow;  an  unkind 
word  a  death-wound  !  No — no,  Edward.  Pass  on 
your  way.  Seek  another  companion,  and  let  me  work 
out  my  life-problem  alone.  Perhaps  we  may" — 

But  she  suddenly  checked  the  utterance  of  what 
was  in  her  thoughts. 

"  Perhaps  what,  Helen  ?     Speak  on." 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say,  Edward." 

How  evenly,  almost  coldly,  this  was  said  ! 

"  Take  up  the  whole  subject  again  ?"  urged  the 
young  man,  almost  imploringly,  as  he  was  about 
parting  with  her  that  night.  "  There  is  a  true 
marriage,  as  well  as  a  false  one,  and  its  crown  is 
unimagined  felicity.  Dear  Helen  !  ours,  believe 
me,  will  be  a  true  marriage." 

They  had  entered  her  house,  and  were  sitting 
together.  Helen  turned  her  face,  so  that  the  light 
•fell  upon  it;  and  Edward  saw  that  it  was  pale  and 
very  sad — showing  a  depth  of  emotion  which  her 
voice  had  not  betrayed 

"  As  a  friend  and  brother,  Edward,"  she  replied, 
"  I  bear  towards  you  a  warm  affection.  No  deeper 
sentiment  can  be  admitted  into  my  heart  if  you 


EDWARD    LINTON.  287 

will  continue  to  be  as  a  friend  and  brother — well. 
If  not,  let  our  ways  in  life  diverge  hove ;  for,  be 
lieve  me,  they  can  have  no  closer  parallel !" 

For  many  minutes,  Edward  Linton  sat  silent 
and  motionless.  lie  then  said — 

"  Answer  me  one  question,  and  truly,  Helen." 

"  I  will  answer  one,  or  two,  or  three,"  she 
replied.  "  But  let  it  be  understood,  that,  with 
this  interview,  the  subject  closes  for  ever." 

"  Is  there  anything  about  me  that  repels  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  prompt,  free-spoken  word 
that  fell  from  her  lips. 

"  Have  you  seen  in  my  character  any  trait  the 
existence  of  which,  if  you  were  my  wife,  would 
destroy  your  happiness  ?" 

"  No,  Edward,  I  have  not." 

"  One  question  more,  and  the  last : — Have  you 
ever  loved  anotller  ?" 

"  Never !  Never !  My  heart,  Edward,  is  a 
sealed  book." 

"  Enough,"  said  the  young  man,  rising, — "  I 
accept  all  you  will  give  me — the  love  of  a  sister 
and  friend." 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  his  heart  was 
too  deeply  moved.  Almost  crushing  the  small 
hand  he  held  at  parting,  he  uttered  the  words— • 
"Good  night!"  and  turning  away,  went  slowly 
from  the  house.  It  was  night  with  him,  and  oue 
that  continued  long  before  the  breaking  of  day. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

tor 


"Nay,  thou  art  now  so  dear,  methinkk, 

The  further  we  are  forced  apart, 
Affection's  firm  elastic  links 
But  bind  the  closer  round  the  heart."-  HOOD. 

HELEN  was  in  error.  Her  heart  was  not  a  sca 
book.  Edward  Linton  had  unlocked  the  clasps  — 
had  opened  it  —  had  written  his  name  on  the  firsc 
page  in  characters  never  to  he  effaced  ;  —  and  it 
was  all  in  vain  that  she  tried  to  shut  the  hook 
again,  or  turn  her  eyes  away  from  the  writing  it 
contained.  But  it  was  her  secret  alone,  and  one 
that  she  meant  to  carry  with  her  to  the  grave. 

It  would  have  required  a  colder  temperament 
than  that  of  Edward  Linton  to  find,  in  the  placid 
love  we  hear  for  sister  or  friend,  anything  like  a 
substitute  for  the  lover's  ardent  passion;  or  to 
live  in  almost  daily  association  with  the  being 
dearer  to  him  than  all  the  world  beside,  and  yet 
feel  the  doom  of  an  abiding  spirit-exile. 

No  truth  was  clearer  than  that  Helen  was  the 
only  woman  he  could  ever  love;  and  he  was  a 
man  who  had  too  pure  an  ideal  of  life,  and  too 


THE   ERKOR    DETECTED.  259 

high  x.n  appreciation  of  the  sacredness  of  mar 
riage,  ever  to  wed  from  any  worldly  or  selfish 
considerations.  He  could  never  have  said  to  any 
other  living  woman,  "  I  love  you"  —  for  that 
would  have  heen  false  j  he  could  never  have 
uttered  vows  of  fidelity,  when  his  heart  was  all 
another's — even  though  another's,  hopelessly. 

For  a  while,  the  young  man  continued  to  visit 
Helen,  as  of  old.  But  the  sight  of  her  only 
inflamed  his  passion,  and  made  his  life  wretchei 
The  quiet  attentions  of  the  brother  and  friend 
were  for  ever  losing  themselves  in  the  warmer 
actions  of  the  lover,  and  were  as  often  repelled 
by  a  womanly  reserve  that  was  ice  to  his  feelings. 
A  year  of  such  a  life,  during  the  course  of  which 
he  saw  no  change  in  Helen  except  an  increase  of 
endearing  qualities,  warned  him,  by  its  effect 
upon  his  mind,  of  the  necessity,  in  mere  self-pro 
tection,  f6r  an  external  separation.  It  would  not 
do  for  him  to  meet  her,  except  at  remote  intervals. 
As  to  forgetting  her,  that  he  neither  desired  nor 
sought.  Hope  was  not  dead  in  his  heart.  No, 
no !  He  had  faith  in  the  future — though  it  was 
so  far  away  in  the  distance  that  tre  brightness  of 
its  coming  dawn  was  not  yet  visible  on  any  of 
the  cloud-topped  mountains. 

And  so  Edward  Linton  withdrew,  and  stood 
afar  off  with  his  eyes  turned  away.  Very  lonely 
*vas  his  life — lonely  and  hermit-like  But  lie 


£90  THE   WITHERED  HEART. 

was  a  thinking,  earnest  man;  and,  withal,  one 
who,  deeply  conscious  of  the  depressing  force  of 
hereditary  tendencies,  sought,,  through  Divine 
power,  to  rise  into  a  higher  life  than  that  which 
we  call  natural — a  life  of  spiritual  qualities  and 
perceptions.  lie  read,  and  studied,  and  thought 
with  an  earnest,  searching  spirit.  Happily  it 
was  in  the  right  direction.  New  truth  dawned 
upon  his  mind — not  that  of  a  mere  natural,  sen 
sual,  and  blinding  philosophy  that  never  lifts 
itself  above  the  clouds  and  dimness  of  this  world  ; 
but  that  of  true  spiritual  religion,  bright,  clear, 
and  heavenly  in  all  its  elucidations.  As  he  pon 
dered,  light  shone  into  his  perceptions,  and  the 
mystery  of  Providence  gradually  unfolded  itself, 
until  forms  of  order,  wisdom,  and  beauty  appeared, 
where,  a  little  while  before,  everything  seemed 
hidden  or  deformed. 

Much,  however,  was  yet  seen  darkly;  and  par 
ticularly  dark  was  the  providence  that  separated 
him  from  one  who  should  have  been  his  married 
partner — one,  whose  interior  life  remained  in  as 
stern  an  isolation  as  his  own.  This  he  could  not 
comprehend — this  troubled  him.  He  had  not  yet 
fully  apprehended,  though  he  was  not  prepared  to 
deny  the  truth  that,  to  both  of  them,  this  painful 
discipline  might  only  be  a  preparation  for  that 
true  internal  oneness  into  which  only  purified 
spirits  may  enter. 


THE   ERROR   DETECTED.  291 

As  for  Helen,  the  years  glided  over  her  head 
'y  placidly,  so  far  as  the  world,  or  even  those 
saw  her  daily,  could  perceive.  Her  sisters, 
under  her  loving  care,  had  now  passed  through 
the  years  of  pleasant  girlhood,  were  grown  up  to 
woman's  estate,  and  were  all  married  well,  in 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  that  phrase.  None 
of  them  possessed  Helen's  acute  feelings ;  none 
of  them  had  spirits  as  finely  attuned.  Their 
husbands  were  men  of  ordinary  mould ;  and  hoth 
husbands  and  wives  were  satisfied  with  their 
choice.  But  the  marriages  were  not-  such  as 
gave  any  encouragement  to  Helen,  to  venture  i/> 
their  track  upon  so  treacherous  a  sea. 

We  have  said  that,  so  far  as  the  world  could 
see,  the  years  moved  on  with  Helen  very  placidly. 
But  the  world  had  no  eyes  for  her  interior  life. 
Her  heart  sacredly  kept  its  own  secrets.  The 
page  on  which  Edward  Linton  had  written  his 
name,  was  yet  unmarked  by  another  word,  and 
time  had  neither  blurred  the  sheet,  nor  dimmed 
the  impress.  Whenever  she  turned  her  eyes  in- 
ward,  ^he  saw  the  inscription;  and  many  a  sigh 
had  passed  her  lips,  and  many  a  tear  fallen,  as 
she  gazed  upon  it.  For  him  she  often  grieved ; 
rarely  for  herself — for  well  had  she  learned  her 
lessons  of  endurance.  When  he  ceased  visiting 
her,  she  felt  a  kind  of  relief;  but  yet  she  missed 
his  companionship,  and  there  followed  a  seme  oi 


THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

loneliness  and  desertion  that  Avas  almost  painful. 
But  she  subdued  this  feeling,  or  at  least  made 
an  effort  to  do  so,  and  sought,  in  the  many  duties 
of  maiden-sister  and  maiden -aunt  —  distinctions 
these,  for  which  she  -was  yet  young — to  find  a 
tranquillity  of  spirit,  which  she  endeavoured  to 
accept  as  a  compensation  for  the  higher  pleasures 
to  which  every  woman  is  horn.  But  the  voice  of 
nature  was  never  entirely  silenced — the  yearnings 
for  a  truer  life  were  never  fully  repressed. 

Time  moved  on  apace ;  and  there  grew  up 
around  Helen,  in  the  homes  of  her  sisters,  a  band 
of  young  children,  to  whom  she  ministered  with  a 
loving  care,  and  in  whose  eyes  she  ever  appeared 
beautiful  and  good  as  an  angel.  At  remote  in 
tervals,  she  met  Edward  Linton  in  company.  lie 
AV;IS  still  unmarried.  He  never  approached  her 
familiarly,  on  these  occasions ;  but,  after  their 
rather  cold  and  formal  greeting,  she  would  often, 
as  she  looked  to  the  quarter  of  the  room  where 
he  happened  to  be,  find  his  eyes  resting  upon  her 
in  a  gaze  so  sadly  earnest  that  it  would  haunt 
her  for  weeks  afterwards.  These  meetings  always 
disturbed  her  spirit,  and  threw  questioning  doubts 
into  her  mind.  To  herself,  she  had  only  been 
just !  Self-protection  was  one  of  the  first  laws  of 
our  being!  But,  had  she  been  just  to  him  ?  All ! 
that  was  a  new  view  of  the  case.  Was  she  not 
willing  to  make  some  sacrifice  for  one  who  loved 


THE   ERROR   DETECTED.  293 

her  with  an  undying  love  ?  for  one,  Avhose  whole 
life  was  desolate,  because  deprived  of  her  com 
panionship? 

This  was  her  state  of  mind,  when,  one  day,  the 
husband  of  a  sister  with  whom  she  was  spending 
a  little  time,  said,  in  her  presence — 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Lin  ton  off  in  the  steamer  to-day." 

"  Ah  !  Is  he  going  to  make  the  tour  of  Europe  ?" 
said  the  young  wife. 

"  No ;  he  goes  to  reside  in  London,  as  the  re 
presentative  of  their  house  there." 

"  Permanently?" 

"  Yes.  He  told  me  that  he  hardly  expected  t« 
return  to  this  country  within  ten  years." 

No  more  was  said.  A  close  observer  would 
have  been  in  considerable  doubt  as  to  whether 
Helen  had  heard  the  few  sentences  that  passed 
between  her  sister  and  her  brother-in-law. 

lint  she  did  hear  them,  and  they  disturbed  hei 
more  profoundly  than  anything  she  had  heard 
for  years.  As  soon  as  she  could  retire,  without 
attracting  attention,  she  did  so,  and  withdrew  to 
the  seclusion  of  her  own  apartment. 

"  What  does  this  mean  .'"  Thus  she  spoke  to 
herself,  resolutely  laying  her  hand  upon  her 
bosom  with  a  firm  pressure, — "What  is  Edward 
Linton  to  me,  that  the  knowledge  of  his  removal 
to  another  country  gives  me  a  quicker  heart-beat .'" 

She  looked  inward  with  a  steady  gaze.  And 
2A 


294  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

what  did  she  see?  Only  the  image  of  Edward 
Linton !  It  must  be  a  phantasy.  She  closed  her 
eyes  tightly,  and  then  looked  again.  The  image 
was  more  distinct,  and  the  eyes  were  gazing  upon 
her  with  all  the  love  and  tenderness  that  filled 
them,  when  he  took  her  hand*  in  his  years  ago, 
and  told  her  that  she  was  dearer  to  him  than  all 
the  world.  How  beautiful  was  the  countenance ! 
How  full  of  manly  dignity;  of  hign  honour;  of 
pure  sentiment !  She  gazed  and  gazed  upon  it, 
and  could  not  turn  her  eyes  away. 

From  that  time,  there  was  a  change  in  Helen, 
visible  to  all  eyes.  The  exterior  of  her  life  had 
habitually  been  very  quiet  and  unobtrusive.  But 
with  the  spoken  word,  had  always  come  a  plea 
sant  smile,  that  lit  up  her. face,  and  gave  to  it  a 
peculiar  sweetness.  The  first  apparent  change  in 
her  was  the  gradual  fading  of  this  smile ;  the 
next,  was  the  frequent  recurrence  of  fits  of  silence 
and  abstraction,  the  causes  of  which,  when  ques 
tioned,  she  never  attempted  tor-explain. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  year,  signs  of  failing  health 
became  visible,  to  the  alarm  of  all  her  friends. 
Medical  aid  was  sought ;  but  the  physician  could 
discover  no  organic  disease,  nor  was  he  able,  by 
means  of  any  remedies  he  could  give,  to  change 
the  condition  of  her  system  from  one  of  ever- 
increasing  prostration,  to  one  of  healthy  vita) 
action. 


THK   ERROR   DETECTED.  295 

Steadily  the  work  of  decline  went  on  At  the 
end  of  the  second  year,  she  was  little  more  than 
the  shadow  of  her  former  self.  Change  of  scene 
and  climate  were  now  strongly  urged  by  the 
physician,  as  the  only  remaining  hope  ;  and  after 
long  persuasion,  Helen  consented  to  accompany  a 
brother-in-law  and  one  of  her  sisters  on  a  voyage 
across  the  ocean,  with  the  ultimate  design  of 
visiting,  should  strength  permit,  France,  Italy, 
and  Switzerland.  On  arriving  in  London,  Helen 
was  weaker  than  when  she  left  America.  The 
physician  who  was  called  in  declared  that  her 
lungs  were  seriously  affected,  and  advised  an 
immediate  removal  to  the  South  of  France.  To 
Marseilles  the  party  went,  in  all  haste;  and  there, 
in  the  land  of  the  olive,  the  fig,  and  the  almond, 
on  the  shores  of  the  blue  Mediterranean,  where 
the  atmosphere  was  genial  and  balmy,  the  wasted 
invalid  £»r  a  brief  period  took  up  her  residence- 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

f  d*  f  n&ali&. 

"The  woman  could  not  be  of  nature's  making, 
Wliom,  being  kind,  her  misery  made  not  kinder." 

TATLO*. 

Marseilles,  most  of  the  party,  after  a  few 
days,  took  the  steamer  for  Italy,  leaving  Helen  in 
the  care  of  an  English  family  at  the  hotel,  during 
their  short  absence.  The  pure,  mild  air  acted 
upon  her  frame  like  an  invigorating  cordial.  On 
her  arrival,  she  was  so  feeble  that  she  could  not 
walk  without  an  arm  to  lean  upon ;  but  within  a 
week,  she  had  gained  ground  so  rapidly,  that  she 
not  only  walked  alone  about  her  room,  but  through 
the  house,  and  out  into  the  garden. 

One  afternoon,  as  she  sat  reading  by  an  open 
window,  through  which  came  fresh  breezes  from 
the  sea,  the  chambermaid,,  a  warm-hearted  girl, 
to  whom  Helen  was  indebted  for  numberless  kind 
offices,  came  in,  looking  pale  and  excited. 

"  Poor  gentleman  !"  she  said  in  tones  of  pity 
"  Oh,  it  was  very  sad !" 

"What  was  sad,  Jeanette?  What  about  the 
poor  gentleman  ? "  inquired  Helen. 


THE   INVALID.  297 

"  HP  looked  so  white,  as  they  carried  him  in 
their  arms,"  said  the  girl,  as  the  tears  came  into 
her  eyes.  "  They  say  he  broke  a  blood-vessel 
while  he  was  in  the  train,  and  wns  all  but  dead." 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  asked  Helen  with  an  awakening 
interest. 

"  I  don't  know  who  he  is.  He  was  alone,  I 
believe.  They  are  going  to  put  him  in  the  room 
next  to  your's ;  and  I  have  come  up  to  tell  you. 
So  don't  be  frightened." 

Helen  turned  pale,  in  spite  of  this  warning. 
Just  then  the  sound  of  feet,  and  of  smothered 
voices,  was  heard  on  the  stairs.  Jeanette  went 
into  the  passage,  and  closed  the  door  after  her, 
trying  to  shut  out  the  noise.  But  it  drew  nearer 
every  moment,  and  Helen  heard,  in  the  next  room, 
the  heavy  tread  of  those  who  bore  the  body.  A 
slight  shudder  ran  through  her  frame.  For  a 
time  there  was  much  walking  to  and  fro,  and  the 
low  murmur  of  subdued  voices.  Then  one  after 
another  retired  ;  until  a  deep  silence  reigned  in 
the  sick  man's  chamber. 

After  a  while,  her  door  was  pushed  slowly  open 
again,  and  Jeanette  entered,  with  a  noiseless 
step. 

"  How  is  the  sick  man?"  Helen  inquired,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  The  doctor  looks  serious,"  answered  the  girl. 
'  The  poor  man  has  lost  so  much  blood,  that  they 
2A2 


£98  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

are  afraid  he  will  die.  The  doctor  says  that  every 
thing  must  be  kept  very  quiet  in  all  the  rooms." 

"  Is  there  no  friend  with  him  ? "  inquired 
Helen. 

"  None.     He  was  alone  in  the  train." 

"  An  entire  stranger  here  ?" 

"  Yes.  Last  spring  a  man  was  brought  in,  aa 
he  was  brought  in  to-day — looking  just  as  pale 
and  death-like.  But  his  mother  was  with  him, 
and  oh, .how  tenderly  she  nursed  him  night  and 
day !  The  doctor  said  that  nothing  else  saved  his 
life ; — that  if  he  had  been  left  with  one  of  our 
hired  nurses,  he  must  have  died.  Now,  this  man 
has  neither  a  wife,  a  sister,  nor  a  mother  to  care 
for  him,  and  I'm  afraid  he  will  die — poor  gentle 
man  !  They  are  going  to  send  for  old  Pauline  to 
nurse  him  ;  but  she  is  rough-handed  and  deaf,  and 
sleeps  when  she  should  be  watching." 

Jeanette  shook  her  head  as  she  closed  the 
sentence. 

"  Have  they  sent  for  Pauline?"  Helen  asked, 
after  sitting  for  some  moments,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down. 

"  I  am  to  go  for  her,"  answered  the  girl. 

lit  len  was  silent,  and  looked  thoughtful.  Jea 
nette  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going?"  said  Helen. 

"  For  Pauline." 

There  was  a  manner  about  Helen  as  if  some 


THE   INVALID.  299 

tiling  was  on  her  mind.  The  girl  saw  this,  and 
stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  door.  But,  the 
former  cast  her  eyes  again  to  the  ground. 

"  I  shall  be  back  soon,"  said  Jeanette,  more  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  the  lady^an  opportunity  to 
say  what  was  in  her  thoughts,  if  she  had  a  wish 
to  do  so,  than  from  the  idea  that  any  interest  was 
taken  in  her  movements. 

"Stay!"  As  Helen  looked  up,  there  was  an 
unusual  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  and  an  unwonted 
brightness  in  her  eyes. 

Jeanette  removed  her  hand  from  the  door,  and 
advanced  a  few  steps  towards  her. 

"  Don't  go  for  Pauline  yet,"  said  Helen. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  wonderiugly. 

"  Is  the  poor  man  very  low?"  asked  Helen. 

"  Oh,  yes!  There  is  scarcely  a  spark  of  life 
remaining." 

"  And  Pauline,  you  say,  is  not  a  good  nurse  ?" 

"  Pauline  is  old,  and  not  very  tender  in  her 
ways,"  answered  Jeanette. 

"  And  the  poor  sick  man  wants  a  gentle,  tender, 
kind  nurse?" 

"  He'll  die,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  positive  way. 
"  And  he  won't  be  the  first  that  has  died  in  her 
hands,  either.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  they 
always  will  send  for  her — the  hateful  creature.  I 
wish  she  were  dead!" 

"  Can't  we  nurse  him  for  a  day  or  two,  Jeanette  f 


300  THE  WITHERED  HEART. 

I  feel  a  great  deal  stronger  and  better,  and  i 
will  sit  up  part  of  the  night,  I  will  watch  with 
him." 

The  girl  looked,  in  surprise,  for  some  moments, 
into  the  face  of  the  invalid  stranger,  who,  only  a 
few  days  before,  had  scarcely  sufficient  strength  to 
bear  the  weight  of  her  own  shadowy  frame ; — and 
then,  shaking  her  head,  replied — 

"  No,  no.  It  will  make  you  ill ;  and  besides, 
the  doctor  will  never  consent..  The  doctor  says 
that  Pauline  must  be  his  nurse ; — and  he  will  be 
very  angry,  if  she  is  not  sent  for." 

"  Who  is  in  the  room  with  him  now  ?"  asked 
Helen. 

"  The  doctor  and  Madame  Le  T3run." 

Helen  arose,  and  moved  towards  the  door  with 
a  firm  step  and  a  resolute  air. 

"  Come  with  me,"  she  said.  "  I  am  going  into 
the  sick  man's  room." 

Jeanette,  seeing  that  she  was  really  in  earnest, 
•made  no  attempt  to  dissuade  her  from  her  purpose, 
but  moved  along  by  her  side,  and  accompanied 
her  to  the  adjoining  chamber.  The  doctor  and 
Madame  Le  Brun  (the  wife  of  the  hotel-keeper) 
looked  wonderingly  at  Helen  as  she  entered.  She 
gave  a  polite,  though  silent  salutation  ;  then  she 
moved  noiselessly  to  the  bed,  though  with  a  firm 
step,  as  of  one  walking  in  the  way  of  duty — and 
bent  over  to  look  upon  the  pale  face  of  the  sick 


THE   INVALID.  SO] 

gtrangor.  She  stood  thus  only  for  an  instant,  and 
she  showed  no  sign  of  feeling.  But,  when  she 
turned  to  the  physician,  her  face  was  as  colourless 
as  that  of  the  exhausted  invalid. 

"  It  is  too  much  for  you,"  whispered  Madame 
Le  Brun,  coming  to  her  side  quickly.  "  How 
could  you  bring  the  lady  here!"  she  added, 
throwing  a  dark  frown  upon  Jeanette. 

Madame  Le  Brun  attempted  to  lead  Helen  from 
the  apartment,  but  the  latter  quietly  waved  her 
aside,  and  turning  to  the  doctor  said,  in  a 
whisper — 

"  You  need  not  send  for  Pauline.  I  will  be  his 
nurse." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head,  and  Madame  Le 
Brim  protested;  but  Helen  silenced  all  their -op 
position  by  repeating  her  declaration,  and  in  a 
way  which  convinced  them  both  that  she  was 
altogether  in  earnest.  They  adjourned  from  the 
room,  and  held  the  following  brief  discussion  : — 

"  We  will  send  for  Pauline,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  You  can  assist  her  if  you  will." 

"  No,  no ! "  was  the  firm,  decided  answer. 
"  Pauline  must  not  be  sent  for.  I  will  be  his 
nurse." 

"  You  cannot  watch  with  him  all  the  night 
We  must  have  Pauline,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Pauline  shall  not  touch  him!"  The  flush 
had  re  turned  to  her  pale  iheeks,  and  fire  buru^J 


302  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

in  her  eyes.  "  I  would  not  leave  him  alone  with 
her  for  a  single  instant !  Let  Pauline  stay  where 
she  is.  If  it  is  the  price  of  nursing  you  wish  her  to 
receive,  I  will  pay  her  all  the  same  as  if  she  were 
in  attendance.  And  now,  Doctor,"  she  said, 
speaking  like  one  who  had  rights  in  the  case — "  I 
will  receive  any  directions  you  have  to  give;  and 
I  promise  you  to  ohserve  them  faithfully."  In  a 
lower  voice,  and  for  his  ears  alone,  she  added — 
"  Save  his  life,  Doctor,  if  within  the  power  of 
human  skill,  and  your  reward  will  be  great!" 

It  was  now  plain  to  the  doctor  in  which  direc 
tion  his  interests  lay ;  and  so,  giving  up  all 
opposition,  he  accepted  the  services  of  the  self- 
constituted  nurse,  who  took  immediate  charge  of 
the  sick  man — issuing  her  directions  with  the 
firmness  of  one  in  authority.  To  Madame  Le 
Brun,  she  said — 

"  I   wish  Jeanette  as  my  attendant.     Charge 
what  you  will  foi  her  services,  but  let  them  be, 
exclusively  mine." 

Madame  Le  Brun,  surprised,  and  almost  over 
awed,  by  the  calm,  dignified,  resolute  manner  of 
her  guest — so  different  from  what  it  had  been  since 
the  day  of  her  arrival,  as  a  feeble,  drooping  invalid 
• — yielded,  without  a  sign  of  opposition,  everything 
that  was  demanded. 

When  all  this  came  to  the  ears  of  the  English 
lady,  in  whose  care  Helen  had  been  left  by  her 


THE  INVALID.  SOS 

friends,  during  their  brief  absence  in  Italy,  she 
attempted  remonstrance.  But  the  sentences  she 
tried  to  utter  died  on  her  lips  ere  half  spoken 
and  she  gazed  in  wonder  upon  the  changed  coun 
tenance  and  erect  form  of  one  who,  when  seen  but 
an  hour  before,  looked  frail  and  drooping,  like  a 
weary  pilgrim,  whose  steps  were  going  hastily 
down  into  the  Vale  of  Shadows.  It  was  to  her  a 
marvel  and  a  mystery; 

When  the  dimness  of  twilight  came,  and  even 
ing  drew  her  shadowy  curtains  closer  and  closer, 
Helen  took  her  place  by  the  side  of  the  sick 
stranger,  and  never  left  him  for  a  moment  until 
the  day  dawned.  Twice  during  the  night  he 
coughed  slightly,  each  time  with  an  effusion  of 
blood,  which  was  checked  by  medicine  which  had 
been  left  for  the  purpose — and  which  was  given 
instantly.  Helen  shuddered,  as  she  thought  how 
entirely  his  life  was  in  her  hands,  and  remem 
bered  what  Jeanette  had  said  of  the  old  nurse, 
Pauline. 

When  Jeanette  came  to  relieve  her  in  the  morn 
ing,  Helen  manifested  no  signs  of  weariness  or 
exhaustion ;  indeed,  it  required  some  persuasion 
to  induce  her  to  relinquish  her  post,  and  seek  the 
refreshment  of  a  few  hours'  sleep. 

Not  once  durinjj  the  ni<?ht  had  the  sick  man 

o  c? 

evinced  any  distinct  consciousness ;  not  once  had 
he.opened  his  eyes,  or  spoken.     Even  during  the 


804  THE  WITHERED   HEART. 

two  fits  of  coughing,  and  the  attendant  flow  of 
blood  from  his  lungs,  he  only  moaned  feebly. 

At  ten  o'clock,  Helen  awoke  from  profound 
slumber.  The  lady,  in  whose  care  her  friends  had 
left  her,  was  sitting  by  her  bedside,  and  as  she 
attempted  to  rise,  placed  her  hand  upon  her,  and 
bore  her  gently,  but  firmly  back,  until  her  head 
rested  on  the  pillow  from  which  it  had  just  been 
lifted. 

"  You  have  not  had  sufficient  rest,  Miss  Hardy, 
after  a  night  of  watching.  Lie  still,  and  sleep 
again." 

Helen  looked  at  her  for  some  moments, 
not  fully  comprehending  the  meaning  of  her 
words. 

"  Where  is  Jeanette  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  She  is  with  the  sick  man,  who  is  sleeping.'* 

This  reply  made  all  clear  in  an  instant.  Her 
heart  struck  a  quicker  measure,  and  the  blood  came 
warmly  into  her  cheeks. 

"  How  is  he  ? "  she  asked,  with  an  interest  in 
her  tones  that  could  not  be  repressed. 

"  There  is  no  change  in  him.  He  has  scarcely 
moved,  Jeanette  says,  since  you  left  him." 

"  Has  the  doctor  been  here  ? " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  He  should  have  been  here  long  ago."  Helen 
looked  disappointed,  and  her  \oice  betrayed  anx 
ious  feeling.  "  Hark ! "  she  added,  after  a  moment 


THE   INVALID.  305 

or  two,  and  partly  raised  herself  to  listen.     "  Isn't 
that  the  doctor's  step  ?" 

The  sound  of  a  man's  feet  was  heard  along  the 
passage. 

"  Yes,"  she  added,  starting  up,  as  the  sound 
ceased,  and  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room  was 
heard  to  open.  "  And  I  must  see  him  ! " 

Ilemonstrance  was  in  vain.  The  lady  might  as 
well  have  talked  to  the  wind.  Helen  arose,  and 
throwing  on  a  morning-wrapper,  went  hastily 
from  her  own  chamber  to  that  of  the  sick  man. 
She  fbuiid  the  doctor  at  the  bedside,  looking  with 
a  sober  face  upon  his  patient. 

"  How  did  he  pass  the  night  ? "  he  inquired,  in 
a  low  whisper. 

Helen  stated,  in  a  few  sentences,  what  had 
occurred. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  Did  he  lose  much  blood  ? 

«  No." 

"  You  gave  the  medicine?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Right.     And  the  bleeding  ceased  ?" 

"  Almost  instantly." 

"  He  has  had  no  nourishment?" 

"  None.     What  shall  we  give  him,  Doctor?" 

"  Fresh  cream.     I  should  have  ordered  it  last 
night.     Let  a  spoonful  or  two  of  fresh  cream  be 
gi\en  every  hour." 
2B 


306  THE  WITHEEED   HEART. 

Helen  looked  at  Jeanette,  who  went  noiselessly 
from  the  room.  In  u  fe\v  minutes  she  returned 
with  the  cream.  In  the  mean  time,  the  doctoi 
had  felt  the  sick  man's  pulse,  and  pronounced  its 
beat  encouraging. 

"  He  must  be  kept  very,  very  quiet,"  was  his 
injunction.  "  Much — everything,  I  may  say — 
depends  on  that.  I  will  leave  more  medicine,  to 
he  given  if  the  hemorrhage  returns.  And  don't 
fail  to  give  a  spoonful  or  two  of  cream  as  often,  at 
least,  as  once  in  an  hour.  I  will  call  in  again 
before  night." 

After  the  doctor  retired,  an  effort  was  made  to 
get  Helen  back  again  into  her  own  room;  but  it 
was  a  fruitless  one. 

"  It  is  useless  to  urge  me,"  she  answered  the 
distressed  lady-friend,  who  feared  the  most  serious 
consequences — "  rny  duty  is  here,  and  here  I  must 
remain.  Do  not  feel  any  anxiety  on  my  account. 
God  never  assigns  to  any  one  a  duty  without 
giving  strength  for  its  performance.  The  life  of 
this  sick  man  He  has  placed  in  my  hands,  and  I 
will  be  true  to  my  trust — true,  even  if  assured 
that  my  own  life  were  at  stake." 

The  lady  gazed  upon  her  with  mingled  fear, 
wonder,  and  admiration. 

For  several  hours,  Helen  remained  a  watcher 
by  the  sick  man's  bed,  never  failing  to  give  the 
nourishment  ordered  by  the  physician.  Wheu 


THE   INVALID.  307 

the  doctor  came  in  the  afternoon,  he  pronounced 
all  the  symptoms  more  favourable. 

"If  he  recovers,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  to 
Helen,  impressively,  "  he  will  owe  his  life  to  you." 
A  little  while  afterwards  he  asked — 

"  Who  is  to  sit  up  with  him  to-night  ?" 

"  That  will  be  my  task,"  answered  Helen. 

But  the  doctor  said,  "  No ;  yc  i  are  too  feeble, 
Mademoiselle.  You  will  get  ill.  You  will  die 
Jeanette  must  sit  up." 

Helen  smiled  courageously,  as  she  replied — 

"  I  will  not  leave  him  in  the  care  of  any  one. 
I  will  watch  through  the  night." 

"  But  you  were  up  all  last  night." 

"  I  have  been  sleeping  to-day,  and  I  will  rest 
again  this  afternoon." 

ISh(>  could  not  be  turned  from  her  purpose :  and 
so  all  opposition  was  withdrawn.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  she  was  persuaded  to  lie  down,  when 
she  obtained  more  than  two  hours'  refreshing 
sleep.  She  then  relieved  Jeanette,  and  watched 
through  all  the  silent  night  in  the  sick  mail's 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

fTJ*  Jurists'  Sctant. 

"rAnt  ")-at  is  liuman  sorrow  ? 

The  rtp-v  UJMIII  the  earth. 
That  bo<*'p'h  dciwii  tne  flower  awhile. 
To  c*U  its  odour  forth." — ilus.  lloriTT 

NOT  »o  «t°ll  and  death-like  lay  the  sufferer  new. 
He  moK.n^d  frequent1  y.  was  restless,  and  bad 
several  slight  attacks  of  roughing,  which  alarmed 
Helen  fearfully.  But  greatly  to  her  encourage 
ment  and  relief,  no  effusions  of  blood  accompanied 
these  paroxysms.  During  the  latter  part  of  the 
night,  he  became  more  compered,  and  even  slept. 
Patiently  his  angel-like  watcher  kept  her  post 
by  his  side,  through  all  the  weary  \ours.  A  little 
before  day-dawn,  the  restlessness  returned  ;  and 
with  the  low  meanings  heretofore  attendant  on 
this  condition,  was  the  occasional  ir iterance  of 
words,  and  incoherent  sentences.  YV  lift  a  quick 
start  Helen  gave,  as  her  own  name  fell  .4r<>m  his 
lips !  Leaning  close  down,  she  looked  ii'tc  his 
face.  But  the  eyes  were  closed.  Again  the  p^le 
lips  moved,  and  again  her  name  was  spokeii.  It 


THE  TOURISTS'  RETTJRW.  809 

seemed  as  if  a  new  life  were  horn  in  her  heart — 
a  new  life,  with  newer  and  sweeter  emotions  than 
had  ever  yet  stiiTed  the  hidden  depths  of  her 
feelings.  1  Sending  over  the  sleeper,  she  pressed 
her  pure  lips  to  his  forehead.  Was  it  the  kiss  of 
a  sister  ? 

Love  and  Duty,  united,  had  given  strength  up 
to  this  hour.  But,  now,  Duty  went  out  from  the 
sick  chamber — Love  only  remained ;  hut  Love  was 
even  stronger  in  her  blessed  isolation  than  when 
her  colder  sister  stood  faithful  at  her  side. 

A  new  fear  now  took  possession  of  Helen's 
mind.  The  life  of  the  sick  man  hung  only,  as 
it  were,  by  a  single  thread,  which  the  slightest 
touch  might  sever.  Up  to  this  time  he  had 
neither  seemed  conscious  of  where  he  was,  nor  ot 
who  were  in  attendance  upon  him.  In  the 
gradual  flowing  back  of  the  current  of  life,  that 
consciousness  must  come,  and  she  trembled  for 
the  result. 

The  question  of  leaving  him  now  wholly  in 
the  care  of  Jeanette  presented  itself,  was  viewed 
on  every  side,  and  held  long  in  earnest  debate. 
But  there  was  danger  in  either  alternative.  He 
was  still  too  feeble  to  bear  any  withdrawal  of  the 
wisest  attentions.  There  was  the  hourly  danger 
of  a  recurring  hemorrhage,  in  which  case,  were 
his  attendant  sleeping  through  oppressive  weari 
ness,  he  might  suffocate 


810  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

Daylight  set  in,  with  its  cold  gray  aspect ;  the 
wasted  lamp  no  longer  threw  a  shadow  upon  the 
wall ;  but  still  the  patient  watcher  was  in  her 
place,  every  faculty  of  her  mind  alive.  She  feared 
to  move,  lest  a  sound  should  disturb  the  sleeper, 
and  awaken  him  to  conscious  life.  Her  eyes 
were  upon  his  pale  face,  every  well-remembered 
feature  of  which  had  the  old  manly  outline,  and 
the  old  manly  beauty,  even  though  wasted  by 
disease.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  turned 
her  face  away  in  order  to  shut  out  the  image  for 
a  moment,  and  recover  that  calmness  which  her 
position  required.  Back  to  the  past  her  thoughts 
took  a  sudden  leap,  and  she  lost  herself  for  many 
minutes  among  old  remembrances.  A  movement 
in  the  bed  recalled  her  to  the  present.  She 
turned  to  her  patient,  and  met  his  eyes,  clear 
and  intelligent,  looking  steadily  upon  her.  An 
electric  thrill  passed  through  her  frame. 

"  Helen !  Helen  ! "  His  lips  moved,  and  the 
name  was  uttered  in  a  half  whisper,  and  with 
the  manner  of  one  who  feared  that  a  sound  nvght 
cause  the  vision  to  fade  away  into  airy  nothing 
ness.  Helen  only  raised  a  finger  to  her  lips,  and 
looked  a  caution  to  be  still. 

"  Helen  ! "  The  name  was  repeated,  and  in  a 
tone  of  deeper  interest. 

"  Be  calm,  Edward, — very,  very  calm.  Your 
life  depends  upon  it,"  she  said,  bending  towards 


THE  TOURISTS    RETURN.  311 

him,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
nothing  of  the  tumult  in  her  breast. 

A  slight  warmth  came  into  his  pale  cheeks,  and 
a  brighter  light  into  his  eyes.  Helen  trembled, 
lest  the  quicker  motions  of  his  heart  should  send 
the  blood  with  too  vigorous  an  impulse  into  his 
lungs, 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  Edward,"  said  Helen, 
speaking  low  and  impressively,  — "  and  there 
must  be  no  excitement  now.  Close  your  eyes — 
repress  a1.!  feeling.  There  is  a  friend  by  your 
side,  who  will  not  leave  you  in  your  weakness 
to  the  mercy  of  strangers." 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  he  whispered. 

"  In  Marseilles."  Helen  placed  a  finger  upon 
his  lips,  as  she  answered  his  question.  She  then 
added, — "  Do  not  speak  again,  Edward.  You 
are  in  Marseilles.  In  the  train  from  Avignon, 
you  were  taken  dangerously  ill ;  and  on  its  arrival 
here,  you  were  brought  to  this  hotel,  where  I  was 
passing  a  few  days.  Thank  God  that  you  aie 
recovering;  but  everything  depends  upon  your 
freedom  from  excitement.  Do  not  let  all  our  care 
for  you  be  in  vain." 

The  sick  man  did  not  attempt  to  speak  again, 
but  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Helen's  countenance, 
never  withdrawing  them  for  an  instant;  until  her 
glance  fell  beneath  the  fascination  of  his  gaze, 
and  she  turned  her  face  partly  uway.  When  she 


812  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

looked  at  him  again,  the  lashes  had  fallen  'ipon 
his  pale  cheeks,  and  there  was  a  smile  upon  his 
lips.  In  a  moment  or  two,  he  opened  his  eyes 
again,  and  they  rested  in  such  loving  looks  upon 
her  face,  that  her  heart  began  to  burn  within  her, 
and  the  fluttering  pulses  to  send  the  warm  blood 
to  mantle  with  new  beauty  a  countenance  which, 
to  Ed  wax  d  Lin  ton,  shone  already  with  more  than 
angelic  loveliness. 

When  Jeanette  came  in,  half  an  hour  after- 
tvards,  to  relieve  Miss  Hardy,  the  sick  man  was 
in  a  quiet  slumber. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  she  whispered. 

"  Better,"  was  replied. 

"  Has  he  spoken?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  the  curious  girl. 

Helen  evaded  the  question. 

"  I  will  take  your  place,  now,"  said  Jeanette , 
"  you  must  be  very  weary." 

"  I  will  remain  a  little  while  longer,"  replied 
Helen.  "  Come  back  in  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !"  returned  the  kind-hearted  girl. 
"  You  will  make  yourself  ill.  I  have  slept  soundly 
all  night ;  and  I  am  young  and  strong." 

"  I  had  rather  stay  for  the  present,  Jeanette," 
said  Helen,  firmly.  "  I  wish  to  be  here  when  he 
wakes  again." 

After  further  vain  efforts  to  induce  the  watcher 


THE  TOLIUSTS*  RETURN.  313 

to  resign  her  place,  Jeanette,  at  her  request,  re 
tired  from  the  room. 

For  nearly  an  hour  Edward  slept  on  —  his 
breathing  much  firmer  than  before.  He  awoke 
with  the  name  of  Helen  on  his  lips,  and  opened 
his  eyes  to  see  her  face  bending  over  him. 

"  It  is  no  dream,"  he  whispered,  while  a  feeble 
smile  played  over  his  countenance. 

"  No,  Edward,"  she  answered  back  in  a  wins 
per,  "  it  is  110  dream,  but  a  living  reality:  You 
are  better,  thank  God!  but  very  weak.  There 
must  be  no  excitement — no  exertion.  Everything 
depends  on  perfect  quiet  of  mind  and  body.  Even 
thought  must  repose." 

He  made  a  motion  to  reply,  but  she  laid  a  finger 
on  his  lips,  saying — 

"  I  enjoin  the  strictest  silence." 

A  pleased  smile  went  flitting  lightly  over  his 
wan  face;  and  his  eyes  looked  up.  into  hers,  ten 
derly  and  gratefully,  where  he  read  more  than  she 
wished  to  reveal. 

"  Do  not  leave  me,"  he  said,  when  Jeanette 
came  in,  and  urged  her  to  take  some  rest. 

The  girl  turned  to  him  quickly,  and  ere  Helen 
could  prevent  her  from  speaking,  said  with  some 
warmth — 

"  She  has  already  been  up  with  you  two  whole 
nights.  She  will  get  ill  and  die.  It  is  only  a 
few  days  since  she  arrived  here,  so  weak  that  she 


814  THE   WITHERED    HEART. 

could  not  walk  alone.  The  watching  will  kill 
her.  I  am  well  and  strong.  I  will  stay  with  you, 
but  she  must  go  to  her  room,  and  sleep." 

A  shadow  fell  instantly  upon  the  sick  man's 
face. 

"  Go,  Helen,"  he  said,  feebly.  "  Go  !  Don't 
think  of  me." 

"  You  will  find  Jeanette  very  kind,"  whispered 
Helen,  bending  close  to  his  ear.  "  She  will  call 
me,  if  I  am  needed.  I  will  get  a  few  hours'  sleep, 
and  then  he  with  you  again." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  held 
it  there  with  a  gentle  pressure  for  some  moments. 
Then  giving  him  one  tender  glance,  she  turned 
away,  and  retired  to  her  own  room,  but  not  to 
sleep.  Thought  was  too  busy — feeling  too  active 
— for  mental  oblivion; 

"  There  is  a  Providence  in  this  strange  meet 
ing,"  she  said,  as  she  pondered  the  past  and  the 
present.  "  Is  it  not  wonderful  that  we  should 
meet,  in  this  far-off  region,  and  under  such  pecu 
liar  circumstances  ?  If  he  should  recover,  lias  not 
God  made  mt  the  instrument  of  preserving  his 
life?" 

It  was  time  for  Helen  to  look  down  deeply  into 
her  heart,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  so.  She 
needed  no  wise  one  to  inform  her  that  Edward 
still  cherished  the  old  affection.  Alid  she  doubted 
not  that  life  had  gone  on  with  him,  since  theii 


THE   TOURISTS*  RETCRTT.  315 

parting,  in  loneliness  and  isolation.    The  thought 
inspired  a  tenderness  before  unknown. 

And  how  had  life  passed  with  her?  Would 
she  willingly  live  over  again  the  years  of  their 
separation  ?  Had  the  days,  since  she  rejected, 
with  an  almost  unwomanly  firmness,  the  suit  of 
Edward  Linton,  been  days  upon  which  she  could 
look  back  with  pleasing  remembrance?  No — 
no  !  Not  for  herself! — not  for  herself!  She  had 
been  a  kind  sister,  a  loving  aunt,  a  faithful  friend, 
blessing  others  in  her  daily  life,  as  she  walked 
with  unfaltering  footsteps  the  path  of  duty.  Uut 
the  green  things  of  her  own  heart  were  withering 
all  the  while — the  pleasant  garden  "becoming  a 
desert — the  flowers  fading  ere  half  unclosed — the 
fruit  dropping  from  the  sapless  branches.  Over 
what  a  waste  of  being  did  Helen  look  back,  with 
almost  tearful  eyes ;  and  as  thought  turned  from 
the  desolation  of  her  own  life  to  that  of  Edward 
Linton,  and  she  remembered  with  what  sad, 
hopeless  eyes  he  had  looked  into  her  face,  years 
before,  when,  from  a  false  principle — originating 
in  selfishness — she  had  said  to  him  that  she  would 
never  marry,  the  struggling  affections  of  her 
nature  broke  the  iron  bands  with  which  she  had 
bound  them,  and  with  a  freed  impulse  went  spring 
ing  to  their  goal. 

Resistance,  if  she  had  felt  inclined  to  resist, 
would  have  been  vain.     Former  impressions  were 


316  THE   WITHERED   HEART. 

fast  passing  away.  The  strength  of  old  purposes 
was  dying  out,  because  in  suffering  they  were 
exhausted.  And  now,  this  new  life,  which  was 
seizing  upon  the  decaying  elements  of  the  old 
false  womanhood,  and  consuming  them  as  stubble, 
was  bringing  to  her  spirit  new  hopes,  new  joys, 
tiew  aspirations.  It  was  like  a  second  birth  ! 

When  Helen  returned  to  the  bedside  of  Edward 
Linton,  she  found  the  physician  in  attendance. 
He  pronounced  all  the  symptoms  favourable;  and 
said  that  his  patient  was  much  better  than  he 
had  expected  -to  find  him.  From  this  period, 
restoration  progressed  rapidly  ;  and  by  the  time 
the  little  party,  which  had  passed  on  to  Italy, 
came  back  to  Marseilles,  he  was  able  to  sit  up, 
and  even  to  walk  unassisted  about  the  room. 
Not  more  surprised  were  the  members  of  this 
party  to  meet  their  old  friend,  than  to  see  the 
remarkable  change  in  Helen.  They  had  left  her 
wasted  and  feeble ;  but  now  her  graceful  form 
had  gained  its  old  erectness ;  the  flush  of  a 
healthy  heart-beat  was  in  her  countenance ;  the 
light  of  a  new  life  in  her  eyes ;  and  a  smile  of 
more  than  former  beauty  oil  lips  long  curved  in 
sadness. 

A  week  after  the  return  of  Helen's  sister  from 
Italy,  a  marriage  was  celebrated  at  the  hotel  • 
and  the  next  day  the  American  travellers,  dimi 
nished  in  number  by  the  loss  of  one  member  of 


THE   TOURISTS*  RETURN.  317 

the  party,  started  for  the  Rhone,  and  Lyons,  on 
their  way  back  to  England  and  America. 

It  was  a  month  later  hefore  Edward  Lin  ton, 
whose  health  steadily  improved,  and  his  wife — 
the  happiest  wife  living,  we  had  almost  said — left 
tho  soft,  pure  sea-hreezes  of  southern  France,  and 
wont  to  their  home  in  London. 

There  is  a  Providence — a  Providence  extending 
to  the  minutest  particulars  of  our  lives — from 
the  hour  of  birth  to  the  hour  of  death.  It  is  ex 
pressed  with  remarkable  precision  in  the  Divinely- 
spoken  words — "  The  very  hairs  of  your  head 
are  all  numbered."  Most  persons  eiT  in  their 
estimates  of  the  Divine  procedure,  and  call  those 
providences  dark  and  mysterious  which  shadow 
the  natural  life,  and  disappoint  the  selfish  affec 
tions.  But  these  are  the  clouds  which  have  "a 
silver  lining."  It  is  behind  these  frowning  pro 
vidences  that  God  hides  his  "  smiling  face."  All 
His  dealings  with  us — all  His  permissions — have 
special  regard  to  the  elevation  and  purification  oi 
our  spiritual  natures,  and  in  no  case  do  they  regard 
merely  the  pleasures  of  our  natural  lives.  Until 
some  degree  of  spiritual  affection  is  born  in  us— 
some  love  of  what  is  true  and  good  for  its  own 
sake — we  are  not  able  to  see  this,  and  therefore 
we  walk  in  darkness,  and  murmur  against  (Jod, 
as  did  the  old  Hebrews  in  the  wilderness. 

Painful  as  were  the  experiences  of  Edward 
20 


818  THE  WITKEHED   HEART. 

Linton  and  his  wife, — sad,  and  weary,  and  almost 
desolate  as  a  portion  of  their  lives  had  been, — 
each  had  an  he'"ddif,ary  quality  which  needed  for 
its  purification  juet  this  severe  discipline.  He 
had  grown  wiser  through  the  elevation  of  his 
understanding  as  to  the  higher  truths  of  spiritual 
wisdom;  and  she. had  grown  more  loving  through 
self-denial,  patience,  and  a  devotion  of  her  life  to 
the  work  of  blessing  others.  The  union  was  a 
truer  one  than  it  could  have  been  in  the  earlier 
days  of  their  companionship;  for  theirs  was  the 
union  of  soul,  whkh  springs  from  a  mutual  per 
ception  of  those  vise,  and  loving,  and  mutually- 
adapted  qualities,  which  meet  only  once,  anJ  then 
conjoin  for  ever. 


TEX  ZXD. 


T.  S,  ARTHURS  POPULAR  WORKS, 


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TEN  NIGHTS  IN  A  BAR  ROOM,  and  WJiat 

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With  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  23. 

ADVICE    TO    YOUNG    MEN  on   their  Dutie* 

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ADVICE  TO  YOUNG  LADIES  on  their  Duties 

and  Conduct  in  Life.  Designed  to  inculcatt  right  modes  of  tninMng  »i 
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THE  OLD  MAN'S  BRIDE;  or,  The  Lesson  of 

the  .Day.  Showing  (be  iVtal  error  committed  by  those  who,  in  disregard 
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THE  HAND  WITHOUT  THE  HEART;  or, 

'  Hie  Xiife  Trials  of  Jessie  Xorinj/.  Exhibiting  a  noble  and  true  woman, 
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the  most  alluring  temptations  from  honor  and  duty,  and  showing  the  final 
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GOLDEN    GRAINS    FROM  LIFE'S    HAR- 

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THE   GOOD    TIME   COMING.     Exhibiting  the  dis- 

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•nnlight  which  from  the  distance  is  continually  shining  down  upon  it  foi 
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THE  ALLEN  HOUSE;  or,  Twenty  Tears  Ayo 

and  JWw.  Portraying  vividly  the  legitimate  fruits  consaquent  upon  tl* 
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ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

WHAT  CAN  WOMAN  DO  ?  In  which  the  great  influ 
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esting  series  of  life  pictures.  By  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  With  Mezzotint  Frojitinpiae*. 
Cloth-  fl  29. 


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rf'-fTHERED    HEART.     Affording   a  striking 

illustration  of  the  necessity  for  avoiding  the  false  and  selfish  principles 
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THE  ANGEL  AND    THE  DEMON.     A  work  of 

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Importance  to  families  and  young  mothers,  and  which  stands  forth  pre- 
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THE    TRIALS   AND     CONFESSIONS    OF  A 

Housekeeper.  Furnishing,  from  real  life,  many  of  the  trials,  perplexities, 
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AFTER    THE  STOM1M.     A  new  and  fascinating  volume 

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THE    )FAY   TO   PROSPER,  and  Other  Talcs. 

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?HE   ANGEL    OF    THE    HOUSEHOLD,  and 

Other  Tales.    In  which  we  learn  how  kind  feelings  »od  o)»«U *•»»«•  to  on! 

better  impulses  benefit  us,  and  how,  with  the  little  heavenly  vi«'u.Dt,  tU< 
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MICHES;    or,   Wealth    Without    Wings, 

and  Other  Tales.  The  lessons  in  this  work  show  how  ruin  succeeds  t» 
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T.  S.  ARTHUR.  With  Steel  Frontispiece.  Cloth.  $1  50 

HEART  HISTORIES,  and  Life  Pictures.  Giv 
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and  mournful  tones  that  almost  daily  cross  our  paths.  By  T.  S.  ARTHUR. 
Cloth:  $1  50. 

HOME  SCENES:    Its  Lights  and  Shadows  as 

Pictured  6j/  "Love  and  Selfishness.  Directed  toward  keeping  the  light 
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In  itself  a  jewel  worthy  a  place  in  memory's  casket.  By  T.  S.  ARTHBE. 
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STARING   TO   SPEND ;   or,   The  Lofton*  and 

the  Pinkertons.  A  book  showing  the  beneficial  results  of  a  wise  restric 
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ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1 50. 

LIGHT  ON  SHADOWED  PATHS.     Stories  which 

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9J7T  IN  THE  WORLD.  TJnveiling  the  sad  experiences 
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OUR     NEIGHBORS     IN    THE    CORNER 

Jdousf.  A.  fascina'ing  and  stirring  narrative,  which  adds  Its  terrib/e 
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NOTHING  BUT  MONET.  Picturing,  in  the  most 
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who  prefer  social  happiness  and  peace ;  also,  offering  a  striking  lesson  to  the 
rery  many  young  minds  in  which  gold  outlustres  every  other  consideration. 
By  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

WHAT    CAME   AFTERWARDS.     A  sequel  to  the 

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ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

THE  THREE  ERAS  IN  A  WOMAN'S  LIFE  f 

nr,  the  SCaiden,  tho  Wife,  and  the  SlotJier,  A  work  depleting  the 
happy  effects  of  right  training  when  brought  in  distinct  contrast  with  the 
wrong,  and  showing  also  the  fruits  of  right  living.  By  T.  S.  ARTIIUB.  With 
Frontispiece.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

BEFORE    AND    AFTER    MARRIAGE;    or, 

Sweethearts  and  Wives,  and  Other  Tales.  Drawing  choice  pictnrei 
of  lovers  and  husbands  and  wives,  faithfully  contrasting  marriage  and 
celibacy,  and  teaching  the  folly  of  employing  money  to  the  moro  pampering 
of  pride  and  indolence.  By  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  Wiih  Frontispiece.  Cloth.  (150. 

THE    MARTYR    WIFE,  and    Oilier    Talcs.     A 

remarkably  interesting  work,  pointing  out  social  foMien,  and  ip«'ndiiig  <>• 
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MARY  ELLIS ;  or,  The  Runaway  Match,  and 

Other  Talc*.  Attractive  experiences  that  will  readily  commend  them 
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ideal.  Ey  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

THE    YOUNG   LADY  AT  HOME.     Home  stories 

most  happily  drawn  by  the  author,  involving  the  troubles,  errors,  and  per. 
plexities  incident  to  domestic  life,  and  showing  woman's  real  mission.  By 
T.  S.  ARTHUR.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

&TEFS   TOWARDS  HEAVEN;  or,  Religion  in 

Common  Life.  A  volume,  free  from  sectarian  or  denominational  influ 
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LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS   OF   REAL  LIFE. 

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stories,  which,  perhaps,  no  other  author  ca:i  furnish  ivi:h  equal  acceptance, 
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SKETCHES    OF  LIFE   AND     CHARACTER. 

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LEAVES    FROM    THE   HOOK    OF  HUMAN 

JAfp.  A  choice  selection  of  stories,  intended  to  leave  the  mind  active  with 
good  purposes  anJ  kindly  sympathies — the  value  of  each  one  of  which  i* 
clearly  evident.  By  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  Kumerous  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

SWEET  HOME;  or,  Friendship's  Golden  Altar* 

A  companion  for  the  evening  hoar ;  pnro  in'morals,  elevating  ia  tone,  cheer 
ful,  hopeful,  and  reverent  in  all  its  views  of  God,  and  a  transcript  of  "  Ilume^ 
Sweet  Home."  By  FRASCES  E.  PEECIVAL.  With  Mezzotint  Frontispiec* 
doth. 


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THE    ANGEL    VISITOR;    or,     Voices    of    the 

Heart.  Intended  to  bring  light  and  joy  to  those  who  are  heavy  in  heart, 
as  well  as  to  echo  the  genilo  teachings  of  Jesus,  and  to  comfort  the  sick  and 
afflicted  everywhere.  By  FRANCES  E.  PBRCIVAU.  Witli  Mezzotint  Frontis 
piece.  Cloth.  $1  2.3. 

THE  MORNING  STAR;  or,  Symbols  of  Clirist. 

An  excellent  volume,  designed  to  magnify  the  beauty  and  wisdom  of  th» 
Word  of  GoJ,  aud  to  cause  the  believer  and  unbeliever  to  think  more  of  th* 
Saviour.  By  WILLIAM  SI.  THAYER,  author  of  "Hints  for  tho  Household," 
"Pastor's  Wadding  Gift,"  etc.  etc.  Cloth.  $1  2j. 

THE  SPIRIT  LAND.  An  instructive  and  very  desirable 
work,  which  Is  submitted  to  the  public  with  the  counsel  that  we  cling  to 
the  Word  of  God  as  the  only  infallible  guide  of  f.iith  and  practice  amul  the 
fanaticisms  of  the  day.  By  S.  B.  EMMOSS.  With  Mezzotint  Frontispiece. 
Cloth.  $1  25. 

THE  DESERTED  FAMILY;  or,  T7ie  Wander- 

intjn  of  an  Outcast.  A  forcibly  and  prettily  written  story,  designed  to 
soflen  the  heart  lo  just  influences,  to  warm  the  affections  to  proper  emotioti, 
and  to  elevate  and  fructify  the  soul.  By  PACL  CRKYTOX.  With  Illustration!. 
Cloth.  $1  2-5. 

FASHIONABLE   DISSIPATION.     A  stylish  nnd 

brilliant  narrative,  which,  together  with  "  Adfla  Lincoln:  A  Title  a/ 
the  Wine  CHI>,"  included  in  the  book,  is  high-toned  and  worthy  yopuUf 
favor.  The  former  by  METTA  VICTORIA  FULLER,  the  latter  by  M.  F.  CABK. 
With  Frontispiece.  Cloth.  $1  2j. 

LIVING  AND  LOVING.  A  collection  of  beautiful 
•ketches  which  evince  all  the  vigor,  freshness,  and  attract!  venes»  no  >~cnllar 
to  the  authoress,  and  which  are  highly  instrncttve.  By  VIRQI.XIA  J  Tov» 
§BXD.  With  fine  Steel  Portrait.  Cloth.  «1  2.). 


NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS. 


WHILE  IT  WAS  MORNING.   One  of  the  authoress's 

ewectest  stories,  in  which  we  are  taught  that  sorrow,  pain,  and  disappoint 
ment  must  come  io  all  in  the  world  ;  yet  the  grand  truth  stands  oat  ia 
glorious  significance  —  "The  righteous  shall  not  lose  their  reward."  By 
YiauisiA  f.  TOW.VSEND.  Cloth.  $1  25. 


^L   CLAYTON,-  or,  The  Mother's  Trial.    A 

taleof  real  life,  written  with  beauty  and  f  irce;  and  in  its  plot  and  executiom 
of  the  very  highest  moral  excellence  and  useful  tendency.  By  Mrs.  II.  J. 
MOORE.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  GIFT.    Embodying  some  of  the 

most  select  religious  articles  fron  the  finest  minds,  among  which  are  "Th» 
Ecfugefrom  the  Storm,"  "The  Sabbath  and  Heaven,"  "  Ileaven  Conceivable 
to  the  Christian,"  etc.  etc.  By  Rev.  RUFCS  \V.  CLARK,  author  of  "  Heavea 
and  Its  Emblems,"  etc.  etc.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

WOMAN'S    MISSION  AND    WOMAN'S    IN- 

flucncc.  A  wonderful  work,  of  which  Bishop  Doane  has  said,  "Itisth* 
Tery  book  which,  if  I  had  a  thousand  daughters,  I  would  put  into  theii 
hands,  with  the  Bible  and  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  as  their  best  companion, 
4c."  Tenth  American,  from  the  Seventeenth  London  Edition.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

THE  ENCHANTED  BE  A  UTY,  and  Oilier  Tales, 

Essays,  and  Sketches.  Embracing  many  of  the  finest,  most  elaborate, 
and  finished  articles  of  the  well-known  author.  By  Dr.  WILLIAM  ELDEB, 
iuthor  of  "The  Life  of  Dr.  Kane,"  etc.  etc.  Cloth.  $1  25. 

THE  RAINBOW  AROUND   THE   TOMB;  or, 

Jtays  of  Hope  for  those  ivJio  Jtfourn.  A  carefully  arranged  and  attrac 
tive  book  of  selections,  both  of  prose  and  poetry,  containing  much  of  wisdoa 
In  several  departments,  and  forming  a  valuable  and  desirable  gift  for  tin 
Christian  parent,  child,  or  friend.  By  EMILY  TFIORXWELL,  author  of  "Th« 
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HEAVEN    AND     ITS    SCRIPTURAL     EM- 

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and  tbeir  secret  com*  union  with  the  Father  in  the  Holy  of  Holies.  By 
Rev.  RUFFS  \V.  CLAKK,  tuthorof"  The  Christian's  Gift,"  "  Lectures  to  Young 
Men,"  etc.  etc.  With  Ste«l  Illustration.  Cloth.  $1  73. 

THIS  YOUNG  LADIES'  OWN  BOOK.  An  offer 
ing  of  love  and  sympathy,  dedicated  to  the  maidens  of  her  native  land,  and 
containing  admirable  selections,  in  prose  and  verse,  which  will  universally 
be  regarded  as  superior  in  quality  and  authorship  to  most  similar  works. 
Br  EMILY  THOKNWELL,  author  of  "The  Rainbow  arou*  4  the  Tomb," etc.  eto« 
Cloth.  $1  75. 

SUNLIGHT  AND   SHADOW;   or,  TJte  Poetry 

of  Home.  A  sprightly  and  well-written  work,  in  which  wears  led  through 
•cenes  and  incidents  descriptive  of  rural  life  in  America;  designed  for  the 
entertainment  of  young  men  and  ladies.  By  HARBT  PBNCILLER.  Cloth,  fl  74. 

THE  ORPHAN  BOY ;  or,  Lights  and  Shadows 

of  Humble  Life.  This  touching  story  of  humble  life  illustrates  the  magnet 
ism  of  love  over  the  human  soul,  and  in  the  perusal  of  it  the  heart  of  the 
reader  will  often  be  drawn  out  in  sympathy  with  the  hero  of  the  tale.  By 
JEREMJT  LOCD.  Cloth,  $1  75. 

THE  FORGER'S  DAUGHTER;  or,  Out  of  the 

Shadmv  into  the  Sun.  A  book  for  pleasurable  and  profitable  pastime, 
which  will  interest  and  arouse  the  sympathies  of  every  intelligent  readtr. 
By  MAKTHA  UUSSEI.L.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

OUR   PARISH;  or,  Pen  Paintings  of   Village 

TLifo.  A  dclighlful  story  of  rural  life,  in  which  the  principal  character*  an' 
among  those  earnest  and  sincere  souls  that  gnther  every  s:ibb:ith  in  slmplk 
conn  try  churches.  By  GKOUOB  Cts.f  lira  HILL,  Esq.  With  Steel  FrontUpl*"" 
Cloth.  41  73, 


!•  FEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS. 

OUIt  FOLKS  AT  HOME ;  or,  Life  at  the  Old 

STfinor  Tfoimc.  The  object  in  this  work  is  to  impress  upon  the  young 
the  imp  rtance  of  having  an  object  in  life,  and  that  object  a  really  useful 
one.  By  EDWARD  TOLIVER.  Handsomely  illustrated  by  engravings  froa 
original  designs.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

HANS  THE  STRANGER,  and  Other  Stories.    In 

which  the  author  keeps  in  view  uJility  in  its  higher  sense,  and  endeavors  to 
show  to  the  young  that  the  true  purpose  of  life  is  not  amusement  or  enjoy 
ment,  hut  usefulness.  By  EDWARD  TOI.IVER.  Handsomely  illustrated  by 
engravings  from  original  designs.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

THE  WREATH  OF  GEMS.     A  neat  unique  gift  book 

for  the  young  of  both  sexes,  in  which  are  selections  from  the  best  English 
and  American  literature — groupings  which  will  be,  douYuless,  both  new  and 
highly  acceptable.  By  EMILY  PERCIVAL.  Steel  Frontispiece.  Cloth.  $1  50. 

THE  EARLY  MORN.  A  small  volume  addressed  to  the 
young  on  the  importance  of  religion,  which  will  be  found  admirably  adapted 
to  such  intelligent  and  educated  young  persons  as  have  bee»  unmindful  of 
the  demands  of  religion.  By  JOHS  FOSTER,  author  of  "  Essays  o»  Decision  ot 
Character."  Cloth.  23  cents. 


A  full  descriptive  Catalogue  of  these  and  all  our  publications, 
Including  a  great  variety  of  Bibles,  Testaments,  and  Albums,  and 
embracing  m:uiy  of  the  choicest  Biographical,  Historical,  Practi 
cal,  and  Miscellaneous  Books  in  the  country,  will  be  sent  to  any 
address  on  application.  Address, 

JOHN  E.  POTTEH  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
617  Sansom  St., 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


!  OCT  15  1973 


10M-1 1-50(2555)470  REMINGTON  RAND  -  20 

mini 


J   •>. 


•^  S22SS»*  LIBRARY  FAOLITY 


A    001  372  743 


